


I've Grown a Hedge Around My Heart

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All Durins are Hobbits, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Species Swap, Awkwardness, Background Canonical Character Death, Buckland - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Durin Family, F/M, Family, Family Dynamics, Fell Winter (mentioned), Hobbit Culture, Hobbit!Thorin, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Negative Body Image, Past Violence, Romance, Social Anxiety, The Shire, Young Love, before the adventure, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thorin was the essence of so many Buckland oddities, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment.</p><p><em>Built like a stork</em>, his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck’s usual tactless humour.  <em>All beak and legs</em>."</p><p>Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings.  Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward.  And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood.  </p><p>It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him.</p><p>Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Big Bang.
> 
> Chapters will be posted twice weekly, on Fridays and Sundays. Final chapter(s) and art will be published on **May 25th**.

  
  


 

“ _It beats me why any Baggins of Hobbiton should go looking for a wife away there in Buckland, where folks are so queer.”_

“ _And no wonder they're queer,” put in Daddy Twofoot (the Gaffer's next-door neighbour), “if they live on the wrong side of the Brandywine River, and right agin the Old Forest. That's a dark bad place, if half the tales be true.”_

“ _You're right, Dad!” said the Gaffer. 'Not that the Brandybucks of Buck-land live in the Old Forest; but they're a queer breed, seemingly. They fool about with boats on that big river_ _–_ _and that isn't natural. ”_

_\- The Fellowship of the Ring (Chapter 1: A Long-Expected Party)_

_\----_

The Brandybuck clan were an odd lot, make no mistake, and there were any number of hobbits who would tell you so, from Sackvilles to Chubbs, Whitfoots to Proudfeet. Even the Tooks, flighty and funny folk themselves by times, would admit their easterly cousins could exhibit some eccentricities rarely seen amongst their Shire kin, but, the Tooks might insist, that wasn't necessarily a _Bad Thing_.

Perhaps the strangest thing of all about the grand, deep-rooted Brandybuck family was that they were not overly concerned about the opinions of their wee, stodgy neighbours. Brandybucks were rather Stoorish by blood, tending toward stout and hirsute, bold as brass, and altogether much too fond of water for any sensible hobbit to be. They kept clubs, sickles, and sharpened axes, not simply as dusty mathoms on the walls of their smials or safely tucked away in the garden shed, but in their entrance halls, hanging from coat hooks and propped against glory boxes. Even their doors and windows were kept latched at night, bolted tight against whatever beasts or bandits might prowl out from the grim shadows of the Old Forest or creep down along the East Road.

It had not been so very many years ago that the Fell Winter had set upon Eriador with such vicious cruelty, bringing terrible suffering and death. Unspeakable horrors had blown in upon the pitiless winds, gnashing tooth and claw, rabid with violence the likes of which gentle Shirefolk had not expected.

Orcs and wolves from the north had crossed the Brandywine in droves, leaving crimson snow and slaughter in their wake, and though the Rangers had come to drive them back in the bitter end, there wasn't a hobbit east of the Far Downs who hadn't heard tales of the Buckland militia rising to the aid of their terrorized neighbours, fending off foul beasts with farm tools and fierce, determined numbers. The great Horn of Buckland, warning of danger and calling them to arms, had blown so often in those frigid months, that there were a fair few Bucklanders who would still hear its dreadful echo in their dreams, when the nights were darkest.

There was a lingering appreciation amongst all Shirefolk for that show of bravery and sacrifice (quite a number of Brandybucks hadn't survived that winter, and their ends had come quicker and bloodier than starvation would have taken them). The Brandybucks were an old, established, and _wealthy_ family, and a useful friend to have nearby when the wolves were, very literally, at the door.

Compared to all that goodness, a great deal of _oddness_ could be forgiven, or at least pointedly ignored, even by the finickiest of gentlehobbits, those most stubbornly set in their ways.

Not forgiven enough to entirely silence the occasional gossiping, of course, but that was to be expected.

Thorin Brandybuck was the essence of so many of these Buckland oddities and more, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment. Wide shoulders and big, broad hands, with pitch black hair creeping down his forearms and over his knobbly knuckles were undoubtedly Stoorish traits, while the blame for long, gawky limbs and a graceless burst of height before he was even a tween could be placed squarely on his Fallohide ancestors. His nose was too long, too narrow, and his hair had never twisted into the neat, corkscrewed spirals of his siblings and numerous cousins, instead falling in loose curls and inky waves around the points of his ears.

 _Built like a stork_ , his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck's usual tactless humour. _All beak and legs_.

Luckily enough, if it could loosely be called _lucky_ , Thorin had never been even slightly comfortable with the socializing and carousing of other young hobbits his age, and so had avoided much of the adolescent teasing he might have suffered. Not all of it, of course, but spending most of his youth hidden away in his room with his books, or out in the back garden of the family's sprawling smial, tinkering on some project or other, had put a dampener on the worst of it. Or, at least, he wasn't within earshot to hear their taunts.

A funny looking lad, from a rather peculiar branch of an already curious clan, who was also saddled with a grim, uneasy sort of disposition— bad luck ran in threes, or so the saying went.

The children of Thrain and Iris Brandybuck (born Iris Sackville) ran in threes as well, though Thorin privately considered any bad luck in that number to have skewed a bit far in his direction. At least they had all been burdened with equally rough, foreign sounding names— curious even by Brandybuck standards, which was saying a great deal. That was a small consolation for Thorin, and a point of shared commiseration amongst them all.

Frerin was still a tween, barely thirty, and just absurdly handsome, boisterous, and charming to boot. He’d inherited thick hair like spun gold, even brighter than their mother’s honeyed curls, and it was confined mostly to his curly pate and the tops of his well-formed feet— Frerin suffered none of the scratchy wool Thorin had sprouted on his chest, like a thatch of twisting weeds. Frerin was also a perfectly reasonable height, standing about three foot seven and unlikely to grown more than another inch or so, with a rounded, welcoming sort of face and an easy, toothy smile.

Dis would be twenty-seven in the autumn, and had recently grown out of the childish, gawky look Thorin had been sporting his entire life, filling into attractive, healthy plumpness instead. Her hair was darker than Frerin’s, tawny brown like the fur of a new fawn, and her cheeks were full and always glowing petal-pink. Dis wasn’t quite so effortlessly charismatic as their middle brother, but she was sharply witty, and quickly becoming more adept at talking her way out the same troublesome situations the barbs on her silver tongue sometimes got her into.

They were inarguably a comely, affable pair of young hobbits: well liked by their neighbours and a source of pride for their parents, to be sure.

But both of Thorin's siblings had scuttled home on more than one occasion with scuffed knuckles and a tear or two in their clothes, and (only at first) with stories of defending family honour tumbling proudly from their chapped lips. That boasting hadn't lasted long at all, past the first few incidents— Thorin would always go quiet and very tight around the eyes whenever he found out Frerin or Dis had been tussling on his behalf, on account of some other lad or lass from across the river making a rude jape at his expense. He was a hobbit grown, having just come of age the last summer, and their elder brother, on top of that. He could fight his own battles, and choose which were worth the fighting, as well.

Most of the time, it was simpler just to avoid such situations altogether. No company was better than poor, unpleasant company, in his opinion. And Thorin was certain that his temperament generally made him quite poor company indeed.

At that moment, on a balmy summer’s afternoon with no pressing chores to keep him close to home, he was rather content to avoid anything and everything, thank you very much.

Thorin had spent months during the past winter, squirreled away in one of the family’s expansive storage rooms— it was a cool, but perfectly dry extension of the smial, used to keep an abundance of grain and preserves in the colder months. Thorin vividly recalled parts of the Fell Winter, years before: mostly the ominous sounds of howling beyond their barricaded doors, huddling tightly with his little siblings around the meagre fire they were permitted in their hearth, and the persistent gnawing of hunger in his belly as they divvied up rations. Having been a tween of only sixteen at the time, he hadn’t been involved in the fighting or the bitterly hard choices some families had been forced to make, but his parents each wore their scars from that long, frigid season, and they had always been sure to keep an impressive surplus of long-lasting foodstuff on hand ever since.

The particular storage room Thorin had claimed as a workshop had been built with outside access, opening into the back garden through a wide round door, which made it nearly perfect for his purposes.

It had taken a couple of false starts and mangled boards before he got the hang of shaping the planks with the curve he wanted, while keeping the finished project water-tight. A little wooden boat, a punt large enough to carry him and some fishing gear without being cramped.

That very morning, his mother hadn’t done more than shake her head, calling out demands that he _be careful for goodness sake_ when he first struggled to haul it out through the garden and down towards the Brandywine. The boat had been balanced precariously, held upside-down and over his head, and when he’d shouted back his promise to do so, the echo of his own voice had left his ears ringing.

He’d managed not to trip over his feet and break his neck on the walk down to the river, and initial testing had assured him there weren’t any leaks— his wee punt seemed safe enough to be going on, and regardless, Thorin wasn’t a completely useless swimmer, if it came to it. The Brandywine was deadly deep, and the current could be treacherous in some places, but he had decided to keep to a wide, particularly slow-moving bend in the river, at least until his craft had been tested a bit more thoroughly.

That was how Thorin Brandybuck found himself floating in the river from which his family had claimed a portion of their name, spread out on his back, lying cross-ways in a boat he’d built with his own two hands and no small amount of stubbornness, with his legs dangling over the side and his toes dipped into the cool water. The sun was lovely, baking him gently down into his bones, and the breeze was light but fragrant with a faintly sweet blend of heather and lavender. Besides some birds, the slosh of water against his hull, and the buzz of swooping dragonflies, there was naught but silence around his hideaway, and Thorin was revelling in the stillness of it.

He kept the boat tethered to shore, tied to a heavy old log that lay partway up the grassy bank, but on a long enough rope to drift loosely in the gentle current, bobbing to and fro. It was a relaxing rocking, just floating there, and Thorin let his eyes drift shut, with his hands folded up behind his head as a pillow. He was rather proud of his boat, and very much looking forward to a few months of this sort of restful escape, whenever the relative bustle of Bucklebury became too much to politely bear.

“Ho, friend!”

The unexpected sound of a voice shattering the tranquillity was enough of a surprise that Thorin nearly ended up capsizing, scrambling out of his lazy lounging pose. The punt dipped dangerously to the side, but Thorin managed to steady it almost immediately— not soon enough to avoid a horrified cry from the far shore, however.

“Are you all right?” the voice called out, sounding more panicked than Thorin felt, and _he_ was the one in the jostling boat.

Taking a deep breath, fairly confident he wasn’t about to end up taking a dip now, Thorin sat up properly and glanced over to the far shore, on the Shire side of the river. Two hobbits stood there, one perhaps a head shorter than the other and both wearing trousers, though with the sun reflecting off the water Thorin couldn’t make out much else about them.

“Fine,” Thorin called back, biting out the assurance with a certain amount of annoyance darkening his tone. It had been a lovely afternoon of solitude, after all.

There was a moment or two of quiet, some muffled chatter from the pair on shore, until finally the voice spoke up again.

“You wouldn't be willing to take on a passenger or two, would you, friend? Just for the crossing.”

“Oh, honestly,” Thorin grumbled under his breath, then called out louder, aiming for neutral and possibly straying a wee bit toward crabby instead, despite his intentions. “Boat’s too small for three. The ferry is only four miles south, anyway; she’ll take you across.”

More quiet, barely audible conversation followed, carried across the water on the fresh breeze, but Thorin wasn’t bothered enough to strain his ears for the words. Instead he sat, fingers laced between his knees, feeling too out of sorts to go back to his mindless floating. The spell was broken, but hopefully only for the day.

Still, he wasn’t about to row himself to shore yet, either. That would look strange to his observers, as though he was fleeing from them.

The hair on his toes was soaked from the river, curling in inky whorls that plastered against his skin— Thorin's feet were the one unabashedly, unquestionably respectable thing about him. Nicely formed, with hard, sturdy soles, and big enough to match his frame, without a single yellowed nail or slightly crooked bone. And the dark hair that was so out of place on the backs of his fingers and dusting across his collarbones grew steadily denser from his knees down, tufting healthy and thick on the tops of his feet.

Most of the lasses and a number of the lads around his age agreed: it was tragic shame such fine feet were attached to a gangly, unsociable grump.

Thorin reached down to scratch one of those fine feet, plucking a small, wet leaf from between his toes. He shifted his shirt as well, picking at the excess of fabric that billowed slightly around his middle, especially hunched as he was. Neither he nor his mother had ever been able to find suitable shirts for him, once he'd grown into his frame, at any market in either Buckland or the Shire. Those that might fit him for length (usually those sold in Tuckborough, for the benefit of those Tooks that tended toward rangy) ran too tight elsewhere, and those cut for stockier builds never had enough of a hem to tuck into his trousers. Rather than spend the effort sewing an entire wardrobe— and it would have certainly been quite an effort, considering how hard Thorin could be on his clothes— Iris Brandybuck had thought of a better notion.

One pleasant shopping trip into Bree later, and Thorin's mother had bustled home with a sack full of foreign-made clothing, mostly dwarven but a few from the tailors of menfolk as well. Most of the mannish clothes had left him swimming in fabric, but the dwarfish shirts only slumped from his shoulders _somewhat_ over-sized. It was close enough to a functional fit that his mother had been happy to alter them, taking in a few seams here and there, and shortening the foolishly long trousers to proper hobbitish length.

Of course he had a few things made from scratch, in wool and linen that was softer and finer than any tough dwarven weaves— his mother had made his waistcoats (which he wore rarely, if he could help it), the few shirts he kept folded and pressed _for best_ , and a couple corduroy jackets that didn’t strain across his back when he moved his arms. Currently, dressed for a day by the river, Thorin was simply wearing a pair of dark brown trousers and a plain, hay-beige shirt (which his mother had slit open in the front and fitted with a row of neat buttons, since dwarves apparently preferred to dress in sacks). His hair was tied up in a stumpy tail at the nape of his neck, held tight with a thin leather thong to keep it out of his face; he wore it ever so slightly longer than was considered tasteful, leaving him just enough to bind back rather than deal with it hanging limp in his eyes.

He looked perpetually out of fashion, not nearly as natty as his peers and usually a good deal dustier than the average gentlehobbit.

When Thorin deigned to glance up at the far shore again, the interlopers were just starting to trudge off down the riverbank, their backs to him now. The taller one carried a walking stick, long and straight, and both of them wore leather packs strapped to their backs. Thorin wondered absently how far they’d come to make it to the Brandywine; how many leagues had they trudged across the sloping fields? It was two days’ walk from Tuckborough or Frogmorton, and a bit farther still from Hobbiton. Most Shirefolk east of the Marish travelled to Buckland by cart and stuck to the main roads, especially when the weather was damp and the land on either side of the Brandywine would go muddy and thick as oatmeal underfoot. It had rained heavily not two days past, pouring some vibrancy back into the greenery, but Thorin imagined the trek from Woodhall had been a mucky one.

An unpleasant walk for two strange hobbits was hardly his concern, however, and he hadn’t been lying: the punt almost certainly wasn’t large enough to safely carry three. It would have been a quick paddle with the oars to make the four crossings necessary to ferry them both over, one at a time, but he was no bargeman for hire. Plain refusal hadn’t been the most polite answer he might have given, and Thorin could almost feel his mother’s disapproving stare boring into the back of his skull, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it now, even if he’d wanted to. The travellers were already off on their way south, disappearing ‘round the river bend, presumably headed for the ferry crossing as he'd suggested.

Thorin kept waiting a few minutes more, drumming his fingers over his thighs. Then, when it became apparent that the travellers weren’t returning this way, he took up his paddles and started back towards his own shore. Dragging the boat onto dry land once he got close enough, he hopped out and claimed a mossy seat on the log that had been acting as his mooring, considering his options.

The punt was small and relatively light, but it was a hike back to Bucklebury, especially now with the mid-afternoon sun high and hot overhead. He could leave it tied, and be fairly confident of its safety here along the river; it certainly wouldn’t be the only boat moored along the east side of the Brandywine. Generally understood custom among Buckland folk was to leave such boats be, except in cases of emergency, but there were always those few young hooligans who thought it great fun to commandeer some fisherman’s skiff for a pleasure cruise. That sort of tomfoolery was especially common around the Lithedays celebrations, when bottles of apple wine would always mysteriously go missing from cellars, and at least a few enthusiastic tweens would make arses of themselves.

The Lithedays were only a fortnight away (as was Thorin’s birthday, sharing glory with Mid Year’s Day as usual), and Thorin was hesitant to leave his little punt unguarded in the meantime. It represented not just months of hard, frustrating work and countless splinters, but also a point of pride— he couldn’t bear the thought of some of his stupider cousins, likely drunk, crashing it into someone’s dock.

It wasn't worth the risk, even if choosing the safer path meant he'd be lugging his punt to and fro from home until he could find a nice, safe little spot to hide it. Thorin stared out at the water for a bit longer, watching the surface glimmer, deep greenish where it wasn't reflecting the clear blue of the sky, and rippling with gentle current and a few diving insects breaking the surface here and there. Without the distraction of just floating, mindless, his stomach decided to remind him how long it had been since breakfast, and what a scant second breakfast he'd bothered to grab on his way out the door.

Next time he came out here, Thorin determined he would bring a pack lunch. Simple, filling, and enough to keep him for the day, in this rare, precious solitude.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To offer some reference, this story is set in SR 1329 (TA 2929), which is twelve years before the events of _The Hobbit_.

The trek back, with the punt balanced over his head again, was just as exhausting as Thorin had imagined. The boat provided a bit of shade, but it also blocked the best of the freshening breeze from reaching his face, creating a sort of wooden oven to bake his brains in his skull. The trip back was also almost entirely uphill, following along the sloping incline of Buck Hill where it rose grandly between the Brandywine and Bucklebury on the other side, and Thorin's shirt was slicked to his back with sweat by the time he stumbled into the back garden of the family's smial. His cheeks felt scorched, likely gone tomato red, and his arms were aching from holding up the boat, but it was a good soreness. Like the knotted, tender muscles he'd get after wheedling Mister Brockhouse, Buckland's foremost blacksmith, into allowing Thorin to help around the forge. The ache of an accomplished day.

It had been a longer walk that it should have been, after having grunted halfway-polite greetings at those few neighbours he'd passed on the way up from the river. A few of them had asked after his parents, and while Thorin had kept his answers as concise as possible, he still had to stop for the conversation. He wasn't actually as ill-mannered as some folk muttered about him; he simply wasn't at all comfortable nattering on about weather, or the state of this year's mushroom crop compared to last. Being strong-armed into idle chatter, without any clear purpose besides _talking_ , made his neck itch and his stomach clench with discomfort. It was exhausting to be so focused on speaking when he had nothing to say, to choose every word with care and not trip over his stammering tongue searching for something to add that was sensible, intelligent, or even witty. But if he wasn't paying such close attention, Thorin would almost invariably blunder into some gaffe or other during the course of a conversation.

Gaffer Ollimark Brandybuck, a fairly distant uncle of his, had made a point of stopping Thorin to ask about the punt. That had been a much better conversation, even if Thorin had still ducked his head like a nervous faunt when the Gaffer critiqued his support framework inside the planks.

Gaffer Ollimark had been fishing the Brandywine since before Thorin's father had been born, and knew boats better than perhaps any other hobbit alive. The criticism came steeped in kind, well-meant advice, and Thorin was grateful for every word, but that didn't stop the hot, senseless rush of shame and even a twinge of frustrated anger from sweeping over him at the thought of every flaw in his work.

Finally escaping up the lane and through his garden gate, Thorin padded around toward his wee workshop, intent on stashing the punt inside for the time being. It wouldn't be possible for him to adjust the framing to match with the Gaffer's advice, which the elder hobbit had known, of course; he'd offered the suggestions for some theoretical _next time,_ and had reassured Thorin that his little punt was a fine, well-built craft as she was. Still, there were a few minor things he could tweak.

Getting through the garden while blinded by the sagging weight of the punt, without tramping over his mother's prized hydrangeas was quite a feat, but Thorin managed, somehow. He was just about to the back door, about to attempt the tricky business of trying to turn the door latch with his toes (rather than laying the punt in a flowerbed and earning a tongue lashing for it), when a voice from nowhere startled him for the second time that day.

And it seemed to be the _same_ confounded voice, despite all odds.

“Ho, easy now.” Surprised words, calling out from not too far away, and coming closer. “Can I help? You seem to have the carrying well in hand— and my word, did you walk all the way from the river like this? But, well, might I get the door, at least?”

“Yes,” Thorin said, because to do otherwise would just invite more chattering, and his arms were beginning to tremble from the strain, ever so slightly. “The door. If you please.”

Thorin could see feet approach— peachy skin covered in light brown curls, and slim ankles leading up into the cuffs of tan trousers— but the rest of his would-be helper was blocked from his sight by the side of the punt. He heard the latch click, the door swing open with the faintest creak, and then Thorin was staggering the last few steps, smashing his knuckles against the door frame with one clumsy sway, biting back a few inappropriate curses. Within a few moments, the punt was safely inside, lying on the spot of floor he’d claimed as a workspace, and Thorin shook out the stinging in his hand before turning back to the traveller. He’d managed to earn a scrape, reddened but not bloody, and his fingers flexed with only a sharp twinge. Nothing serious.

The traveller was standing in the doorway when Thorin looked back, peering into the storage room with a curious tilt to his head. Sandy brown curls, well-matched to the hair on his feet, a dusty green jacket, and a waistcoat the colour of a new copper coin, with actual copper buttons down the front to match— Thorin blinked at the other hobbit, who was backlit by the afternoon sun.

“Bilbo?” Bilbo Baggins, who Thorin hadn’t seen in years. Not since Thorin had grown old enough to choose staying home, tucked away in the solitude of his family’s smial, rather than be dragged along to Hobbiton to visit the Bagginses with his parents. His mother had tutted at first, his father looking disappointed at his oldest son’s disinterest and unsociable nature, but they had eventually agreed to allow Thorin to remain behind, alone, if that was truly his wish.

It wasn’t as though he disliked the Bagginses. They were a kind family, and Thorin had many good memories of sitting on a garden bench at Bag End with Mister Bungo Baggins, watching fireflies as the evening crept in, and listening to stories of the great heroes of elves and men, tales of Ages long past, and even fascinating stories of Shire history and folktales.

Mister Baggins was an excellent storyteller, Thorin recalled: he knew all the tales from memory, and would always speak in the same steady, warm tone, only occasionally breaking into dramatic voices for some character or other. The great booming laugh he put on whenever he quoted old Bullroarer Took was a personal favourite.

Missus Belladonna Baggins reminded Thorin of his own mum, though they looked as different as night and day. Where Iris Brandybuck was honey-haired and plump, Missus Baggins had the leaner frame favoured by the Tooks, and an abundance of deep brown curls, almost as dark as Thorin’s own hair. They were much more alike in temper than in appearance: both generous with their good humour and smiles, and quick to laughter. Fine hobbit ladies, though just as apt to haul on a pair of trousers and traipse through the woodlands as they were to spend a day in the kitchen, baking tarts from the wild berries they’d gathered themselves.

They had also been dear friends since they were girls, and when Iris had married and moved from the South Farthing, all the way east to Buckland, the pair of them had determined to remain friends for all of their days, despite the distance. Thorin had spent numerous summers in Hobbiton in his youth, and even made a few winter journeys— he’d certainly spent more time in the lush West Farthing than he’d ever spent down in Sackville, and those prickly southern folk were his mother’s kin.

Hobbiton appeared quite bucolic at first glance, with its friendly neighbours, rolling green hills, and wide open spaces. No Old Forest looming ominously to the east, with only the High Hay standing guard against what lurked with its shadows, and no clubs or axes hanging in entrance halls. Buckland felt wild in comparison, like an untamed frontier when measured up to Hobbiton’s neatly trimmed hedges.

And, similarly, Thorin never felt so very out of place as he did among the folk of Hobbiton. These Shire hobbits tended toward short and podgy, with robust rounded frames and smooth, hairless cheeks— he was already considered odd for a Bucklander when he was among his own kin, and your average Bucklander was already considered a weird and wild cousin of Shirefolk.

In Hobbiton, Thorin had stood out like a sore thumb, all gawky limbs and bizarre looks. When he stayed east of the Brandywine, at least he was surrounded by more reasonable variations of his own severe features— Bucklanders weren’t unfamiliar with fuzzy cheeks, even full beards on some, and a thickness of build that went beyond a hefty belly. Not so in Hobbiton, and Bilbo Baggins was the clearest example of what Thorin had been up against.

If there had ever been a more perfectly turned out young hobbit lad, Thorin had never met them. Bilbo was trim without being slender, well-proportioned and of an average height, but with a bold presence that made him seem taller. His head and feet were crowned in curling hair the colour of rich toffee, which would (to Thorin’s recollection) glint with strands of gold after a summer spent in the warm sunlight. His eyes were a strange, shifting blue flecked with colours, like a twin ponds full of glimmering fish and lily pads, and his face was so very expressive, laying his mood out plainly, with soft features that were too strong to be simply pretty, but too fine to be merely handsome, either.

Of course, that had all been true years ago, when they were tweens; though Bilbo would always be five years Thorin's senior, they were both grown hobbits now. To Thorin’s eye, however, it seemed as though little had changed. Bilbo still cut the same fetching figure he had as a lad, looking somehow better now that maturity had firmed a few of his edges. More... _refined_ , in a way that made Thorin all too aware of the strings of hair sticking wetly to his own forehead, the rough state of his clothes, and the smeared river mud drying on his calves.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said again, not a question this time, and wiped his palms against his damp, itchy shirt. The knuckles of his sore hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat, quickening. “Bilbo Baggins— Mister Bilbo.”

“That about covers it, yes.” Bilbo's laugh was exactly the same, a bright trill of a giggle, and the sound of it nearly made Thorin flinch. “Though just _Bilbo_ will save some time, I imagine. Hello, Thorin.”

“You—” Thorin took a breath, feeling as though the ground was shifting beneath his feet, far less stable than the Brandywine had ever been. “Why— What are you doing here?”

Considering how much effort it had taken to stammer out some semblance of a question, it was astonishing that what he actually managed to say was so very blunt. Thorin considered, with a burst of ridiculous impulsiveness, simply crawling under the punt and waiting for Bilbo to leave— a turtle in his shell. But in the end he stayed standing, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

It was wholly unfair that Bilbo Baggins was still able to frazzle him so completely, so suddenly, simply by _existing_.

Without waiting for an invitation, Bilbo stepped out of the garden and into the storage room, and Thorin shifted slightly back without thinking. There was an old bed sheet his mother had given him laid out on the floor, to keep his tools and the worst of the sawdust contained, as well as give him something a bit forgiving to kneel on while he worked. At that moment, as his luck would have it, he was standing partly on the sheet.

When his foot slid backward, his heel caught in a fold of fabric. His other foot held the cloth down with his own weight, not allowing it to move with him. In an instant, the world tilted along with his sense of balance, his feet inescapably tangled, and Thorin felt his gut drop like a stone.

The resulting stumble would have sent him flat on his back, likely cracking his head on the edge of the punt, if a pair of small hands with a surprisingly firm grip hadn’t darted out and grabbed hold of his forearms, keeping him upright long enough to gain his balance again. Thorin’s own hands were clinging to Bilbo’s arms in return, entirely without his permission, and he found himself peering down into the other hobbit’s face, close enough to count his eyelashes. They were both lucky they hadn’t wound up in a pile.

“Whoa, there. Are you all right?” There was no more laughter in Bilbo’s voice, just concern, and Thorin was reminded sharply of his fumbling display in his boat earlier. This was the second time that day he’d been a clumsy oaf in front of Bilbo Baggins, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet.

“Fine,” he said again, just as he’d done at the river. He unclenched his fingers from Bilbo’s jacket, expecting Bilbo to step back. Instead, Bilbo stayed far too close for comfort, and even gave Thorin’s bare forearms a squeeze, just under the rolled-up fabric of his sleeves.

“Good.” Bilbo’s smile returned, smaller than before, flickering softly onto his face as a butterfly might alight on a flower. “And since you asked, I’m here as a favour for a dear cousin, and to visit an old friend whose company I have missed for quite some time.”

That still didn’t explain what Bilbo was doing _here_ , in Thorin’s house. In Thorin’s space, breathing his air and touching his arms with those soft palms, cool against Thorin’s sun-baked skin.

Things always looked skewed when viewed through the shifting film of a soap bubble, all bent and backward, and that was precisely how Thorin saw this conversation. Until, as abrupt as his near-tumble, it was as if the bubble popped, and Bilbo was finally, _finally_ stepping away, giving Thorin’s heart room to beat again.

“Do you remember my cousin Drogo?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin shook his head. Bilbo had no siblings, but endured the same sort of abundance of extended relations as Thorin, with endless cousins popping out of every tree and rabbit warren. Thorin had no recollection of any Drogo, but there had been so many Bagginses, Boffins, and even a few Tooks scurrying around Hobbiton; it was very possibly he’d simply forgotten.

Bilbo didn’t seem at all bothered by Thorin’s lapse in memory, however, waving it off with a careless sort of shrug. “Oh no, I hardly expected you to; he would have been just a faunt last time you were in Hobbiton. He’s barely just turned twenty now.”

 _Last time you were in Hobbiton_. That had been more than eight years ago, not that Thorin was keeping count.

“And it seems—” Bilbo continued, prattling on as though it was somehow a normal occurrence for him to be chatting with Thorin. As though it had _ever_ been. “That he, Drogo that is, is sweet on some young cousin of yours. Miss Betony Brandybuck, if I recall.”

Betony was indeed Thorin’s cousin— the third daughter of his father’s second oldest brother, to be precise about it. She was around Dis’ age, with pretty brown eyes as dark and wet as a calf’s, and lived in her family’s smial up in Newbury, about two leagues north as the crow flies.

“He’s been keen to get over to Buckland for ages now.” The was an amused lilt to Bilbo's words, sounding strangely like he and Thorin were sharing in some sort of joke. “Terribly excited for this trip, I’ll tell you. Couldn’t wait for Lithedays, so his folks were planning to come over early, but my Uncle Fosco, that’s Drogo’s father, is having a flare up in his joints— his toes, especially. Just ghastly. Aunt Ruby wouldn’t stand for the notion of Drogo crossing the Brandywine on his own, so I volunteered to take him.”

The fact that crossing the Brandywine was such a daunting prospect for some hobbits would never cease to be strange to Thorin, who had grown up splashing along its grassy banks, catching minnows and slick, wriggling frogs. There was a bridge, for goodness sake, and the ferry was sturdy enough to take a small cart and pair of goats or pony safely, if you weren’t careless about it.

“Kind of you,” Thorin said, just to be polite, and was startled when Bilbo’s expression brightened into a boyish grin, warm and clearly pleased.

“Oh, it wasn’t much strain at all.” Bilbo patted the front of his waistcoat, which was embroidered around the seams with delicate green leaves and pink flowers. Thorin resisted the urge to adjust his plain, woven braces, which felt skewed on his shoulders; if he could avoid drawing more attention to his rough state in the face of Bilbo's natty wardrobe, he would. “The rest of the clan will be following closer to Lithe, but I certainly don't mind being a bit early. It's very good to see you, you know.”

“It is?” It would have been a perfect time to bite out his own tongue, _before_ he'd blurted that out, artless and disbelieving. Bilbo was staring at him now, his head tilted to one side like a bird and his brows furrowing, but before either of them could continue, a shadow fell over the room.

“Ah, you found him.” Iris Brandybuck stepped inside with a great sweep of her skirts, which were as yellow as daffodils today, especially vibrant against the deep blue of her knitted shawl. “Bless me, Thorin, you look a fright. Do stick your head under the garden pump before afternoon tea, wash up a bit.”

The sweat on his neck grew itchier with the heat of a flush crawling up beneath it, and Thorin couldn’t look in Bilbo’s direction, not even for an instant. “Yes, Mum.”

Iris didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see Bilbo Baggins as Thorin had been, and there had been something else as well— _the rest of the clan will be following_. Bilbo had said that, casually as anything, as though Thorin was meant to know what in the world he was on about.

Thorin was reminded of one of his father’s colourful expressions— the sort of thing Thrain would say, bold as brass, in the greatroom of Brandy Hall, pounding the table in the middle of a meeting with Master Broadbelt and the rest of the Brandybuck elders.

Yes, as his father would bellow, he felt rather like a mushroom at the moment, kept in the dark and fed cow shite.

One thing seemed clear, however, if his rather straightforward leap of logic could be trusted: the Bagginses, for whatever reason, were coming to Buckland for Lithedays.

 

* * *

 

Escaping the storeroom with both his mother and a peculiarly amiable Bilbo Baggins trying to draw him into conversation was no small thing, but Thorin managed, using washing up as a perfectly valid excuse to flee at all speed. Taking his mother’s advice to simply rinse off outside wouldn’t have been his first choice, necessarily— dousing himself in the middle of the garden, from tip to toes, then squelching all the way to his room to fetch dry clothes was rather unpleasant— but Iris had made it painfully clear that he wasn’t to step foot inside the smial without being rid of the worst of his sweaty stink, and the dust that had clung to his damp skin on the walk back up Buck Hill.

So Thorin went, jaw clenched stubbornly over all the sharp refusals stuck like burrs on the back of his tongue, while (blessedly) his mother and Bilbo retreated into the smial, chattering about the impending arrival of more guests.

More guests, and Bilbo Baggins underfoot for weeks. Splendid.

Giving the handle of the hand pump a few levers to get it gushing, Thorin cupped his hands under the cold water, bending to splash his face. It was shocking, but also deeply refreshing, and he wiped his eyes before taking up a wooden bucket left sitting nearby. It didn't take long to fill the bucket nearly to the brim, and Thorin pulled the leather tie out of his hair, shaking out his limp excuse for curls, before upending the water over his own head.

If he'd thought the water was a shock to his system when splattered over his face and neck, it was nothing compared to the icy fingers pouring down his spine, soaking though his shirt and rolling down to his trousers. Thorin gasped, sharp and pitched higher than usual, with his back arching against the cold. It was bracing, making his heart pound against his ribs and his breath hitch, but it was also quite an effective way of clearing any muzzy confusion from his thoughts.

Pulling off his soggy neckerchief, Thorin wrung out the worst of the water that saturated it, then wet it again under the pump. It was little better than a washrag at the moment; he wiped his face with the soft cotton, then dragged it down the column of his neck, front and back.

Scrubbed enough for his mother's liking, he tossed the neckerchief into the empty bucket and shrugged out of his braces, letting them dangle on either side of his thighs. He silently thanked every lucky star and any Vala that might care to listen for the relative privacy offered by this part of their gardens, where great, frothy hydrangeas and lilac bushes blocked the sight of him from the road as he yanked the hem of his shirt out of his trousers. He pulled it over his head, giving the shirt a hard wringing out as well— she might have wanted him to begin cleaning up outside, but his mother would not hesitate to shave his feet if he left an unnecessarily heavy trail of drips through the corridors to his room.

His hair was still sopping, clinging clammy against his neck. Bending over at the waist, Thorin shook like one of the Maggot family's dogs from just across the river, sending a spray of water flying every which way.

There were finches twittering in the hedgerow, and the quick chirping of crickets to herald the heat of the day, but it was an unexpected squeak, almost mouse-like if it hadn't been so loud, that startled Thorin enough to turn toward the sound, bare-chested and wide-eyed.

Bilbo Baggins was frozen there, with his face gone as vividly pink as the riot of foxglove growing beside where he stood. Thorin could feel the heat of an answering flush creeping up his own neck and burning the tips of his ears. Automatically, he held his wet, wrinkled shirt in front of his naked chest, probably looking as ridiculous as a bear trying to play at being a blushing maid.

“ _What_ ,” he snapped, sharp as an axe splitting dry wood. Immediately, Bilbo seemed to shake himself, dragging his gaze up and away from the no doubt comical sight of Thorin, all pale skin and dark hair, without even a hearty plump belly to soften the sinewy sight of him. Soaked and tetchy, like a huge wet cat.

“My, um—” Pointing vaguely, somewhere a bit farther along the garden path, Bilbo fidgeted, his mouth moving in a few soundless shapes before he gathered enough words together to make any sense at all. “That is, my pipe. I left my pipe, over on the fence. When, well, when I saw you coming up with your boat.”

It was a believable excuse: besides being particular about the stink of sweat, Iris Brandybuck also would not abide smoke in the smial, nor even the smell of feathers being scorched from any roasting fowl (they kept their own hens, but simply for eggs— Thorin's mother would only buy meat birds from the market if they’d already been entirely plucked). Similarly, Thrain Brandybuck would always go stiff-backed and white-knuckled, with wrinkles deepening around his one good eye, at the sound of baying hounds.

Thorin remembered his mother cooking freshly butchered pheasant when he was a faunt, enduring the faint stench of burning pinfeathers in the kitchen without complaint. He remembered his father leading their wagon along the road by the Maggot Farm, and Thrain (two-eyed and whole, then) not flinching at the barking dogs that heralded their passage. But those memories were from many years ago, long before the Fell Winter, and not every scar from those dark days was as plain and evident as Thrain’s ruined face.

Back in the present, Bilbo was still standing, still _staring_ , making no move to go fetch the pipe that had him out here gawking. Drawing up with a deep breath, Thorin slipped his arms into the wet fabric, now uncomfortably sticky and chilled, and pulled the shirt back over his head. It clung, sitting wrong on his damp skin, and he yanked at the hem.

“I’ll just,” Bilbo said, pointing again, and ducking his head. It was very curious; the Bilbo Baggins he remembered was cock of the walk, strutting ‘round Hobbiton with his fine looks, and forever ready with a clever remark or witticism. Thorin tried very hard not to find the entirely unexpected shyness _endearing_ , of all the dratted things. “I’ll go— I’ll go get it. So, _so_ sorry, Thorin. Didn’t mean to be a bother, at all.”

“It’s no bother.” It _was_ , actually— Thorin could still feel the ghost of Bilbo’s attention, likely cataloguing every oddity of his bare frame— but there was a strange, strong urge in Thorin’s gut to offer reassurance. “Not exactly the epitome of privacy, the garden. And the plumbing leaves something to be desired.”

That urge to reassure didn’t precisely fade, but morphed into something warmer, a strange heat curling up behind his ribs when Bilbo actually chortled, genuine and merry, at his lame quip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I'll see you on Friday with Chapter 3, where we'll meet more Durins-as-Brandybucks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of past, canonical character death here, folks. Also, some Durin Hobbits are properly introduced.

It was pure luck that Thorin had just opened his bedroom door— dressed in fresh, dry togs, but with his hair still curling damply against his nape and his temples— when Dis was swanning past.  An unexpected reach was one of the few benefits of being so long-limbed, and Thorin snagged his sister by the skirt, yanking her out of the corridor.

“What— Thorin!”  Despite her indignant squawk, it was obvious that Dis let herself be hustled where Thorin lead; otherwise he’d never have gotten her inside so easily.  She’d grown up with two older brothers, and was no stranger to thumping either one of them into submission.

The door closed behind them with a resounding thud, and Thorin nearly lost his balance when Dis used the sturdy oak now behind her back as a brace to give him a forceful shove.  He had just enough presence of mind to untangle his fingers from the peachy pink folds of her skirt, holding up both hands in surrender.

“Peace!  Dis, peace, please.”

“You know, _asking_ for a word is just as effective, you great brute.”  Dis smoothed out the wrinkles his grip had made, then leaned back more heavily against the door, crossing her arms.  “And also much less likely to get you walloped.  What’s got you in such a lather that you’ve got to accost me in hallways, for goodness sake?”

Thorin hadn’t wanted to ask in front of Bilbo, but the question of this increasingly peculiar day was gnawing on him.  If he continued on in ignorance, chances were his annoyance with the situation would simply grow— better to know for certain, and have it all out in the open.

“Just, tell me,” he said, choosing his words with as much care as he could muster.  Dis, at least, would be less likely than Frerin to howl with laughter in his face.  “Why are the Bagginses coming _here_?  And did everyone know about this?  No one said one word to me.”

A hundred times worse than any mocking amusement, Dis actually pressed her hand against her cheek, peering up at him with the most pitying moue, and a furrow between her brows.  Thorin immediately felt his hackles rise in the face of whatever misdirected, unnecessary sympathy had his sister wearing such an expression.

“Oh, Thorin,” she said, huffing a small sigh.  “No one told you, because Papa wasn’t keen on you sulking around the smial for weeks, and Mother was worried you’d run off and try to scale the High Hay if you knew.  Hide out in the forest like the big, grumpy Old Willow.”

Brilliant.  It was, apparently, mocking sympathy— the best of both worlds.

He wasn’t a tween anymore: hiding frogs in Dis’ bed was out of the question, as much as she might deserve it.  He just needed to repeat that to himself a few more dozen times, until it sunk in properly.

Taking a deep, slow breath, Thorin tried again.  “Dis, _why_ are the Bagginses coming here?  Aren’t you all heading to the White Downs for Free Fair?”

Free Fair was the most popular, merry festival of the year, with hobbits from all over the Shire, Buckland, and even Bree descending upon the Downs south of Michel Delving to celebrate the Mid-Year.  There, they’d spend the Lithedays carousing, feasting, and setting up a sprawling patchwork of temporary market stalls across the chalky hills.  Thorin was relatively certain the Shirefolk weren’t due to elect a new mayor, which happened every seven years at Free Fair, but that hardly mattered— the festival would doubtlessly be quite the party, as usual.   

Perhaps the last thing Thorin expected, when he repeated such an innocuous question, was a hard smack in the shoulder.  Regardless, that was what Dis chose to grant him, open-palmed and stinging through his shirt.

He yelped, leaning away from his little sister and her quick hands, only to find himself held in place by her fingers, bunched in the front of his plain blue waistcoat (more appropriate for tea with company than just his shirt and braces).

“I swear, brother.”  With a jerk of her arm, she shook him, not quite hard enough to rattle teeth.  “It’s as though your skull was as dense as stone, some days.  Bilbo and his mother haven’t been to the Fair in three years, you dunce, not since Mister Baggins passed.”

A cold stone dropped deep in Thorin’s stomach at the mention of Mister Bungo Baggins’ unexpected, untimely death, at the age of only eighty years old.  It was one of Thorin’s greatest shames that he’d not mustered his courage, and had instead weaselled his way out of a trip to Hobbiton for that funeral.  At the time, he hadn’t stepped foot west of Woodhall in five years, and the thought of finally returning to Hobbiton only to be thrust into the midst of such grief had chilled his blood to ice.

Thorin remembered watching his family’s wagon trundle away, up the road and toward the Bridge, and the sharp ache in his chest.  He was alone in the smial for nearly a month, and was not ashamed to admit that more than one of those solitary nights, with naught but the crackle of the hearth and his own memories for comfort, he had wept.

Bungo Baggins was a fine hobbit, mannered and kind, with a keen wit and a flare for wordplay.  And he had always spared some time for Thorin during those visits to the West Farthing, when the other young hobbits of Hobbiton had invariably left the eldest, oddest, and least amiable Brandybuck lad to his own devices.

It had been Mister Baggins who first uttered the nickname “ _Oakenshield_ ,” after finding Thorin hunkered down between the roots of the great, sprawling Party Tree.  Thorin had been tinkering with the loose wheels of one of his little sister’s wooden toys rather than dashing around with his peers, swinging conkers or kicking a ball about.

“Not a terrible place to spend a thoughtful afternoon,” Mister Baggins had said, patting the rough tree bark and favouring Thorin with a playful sort of smile, as though they were sharing in some great secret.  “And with fortifications beyond compare to keep the blaggards at bay.  Well chosen, good Master Oakenshield.”

The epithet had stuck, as such things tended to do, but it was not the same sort of business as Stork, or Beaky, or Sourface, or a dozen other monikers that had been tossed his way for years.   _Oakenshield_ wasn’t a name that dug under Thorin’s skin, but rather something that forever reminded him of that sunny afternoon, when Mister Baggins hadn’t tried to convince him to go and play with the other faunts his age.  Rather, the respectable gentlehobbit had sat down next to him under oak limbs swaying in the summer’s breeze, keeping peaceful company and telling the odd tale or two.

Thorin had many recollections of summers spent in Hobbiton, but the memories of Mister Baggins’ stories were especially fond.

“Missus Baggins deserves to enjoy some fine Lithedays again,” Dis continued, her grip relaxing enough that her hand was simply resting on Thorin’s chest.  “Without all the tittering and tomfoolery out west on the Downs.  So we’re having a wee celebration here with the Bagginses, and you’ll not gripe about it, Thorin Brandybuck, or so help me.”

“I wouldn’t.”  Not rising to his sister’s challenging tone, Thorin simply shook his head.  Any nervous churning in his gut about their guests had been calmed to a low simmer by a surge of awkward sadness.  “I won’t.  Did you really— You do know I’m not that horridly selfish, don’t you?”

“I know you’re a particular sort,” Dis answered, without missing a single beat, and patted her palm over his heart.  “And sometimes that means you’re a bit touchy about things like this, surprises and guests and such, without necessarily meaning to be.  But no, of course you’re not selfish; don’t be daft.”

Thorin took a moment, chewing that all over, and found he couldn’t dispute it.

“Fine,” he said.  “All right.  Tea.”

 

* * *

 

“—Mother will be staying here, of course.”  Bilbo smeared more strawberry jam over his scone as he spoke.  “She’s wonderfully keen for the visit, bubbling around Bag End like a lass again.  But Drogo and I thought we might take rooms at Brandy Hall— they’ve certainly got the space to spare.  Uncle Fosco, Aunt Ruby, Dora and Dudo should arrive sometime next week, and we’d hate to all be underfoot here.”

At the mention of Belladonna’s excitement, Thorin’s mother had made the smallest chirping sound, pressing one hand lightly against her lips.  It was actually quite thoughtful that Bilbo had kept speaking, with only an instant’s pause, while Iris turned slightly away, daubing her eyes furtively with the corner of a napkin.

“Oh now, there’s no need for that,” Thrain said from his seat at the head of the table, and though he was turned enough to look at Bilbo out of his good eye, he still reached across the tablecloth, giving his wife’s hand a brief squeeze.  “We’ve space enough for guests, even if my father didn’t dig quite so enthusiastically as Old Gorhendad, when he moved us out of the Hill.”

It was true that Brandy Hall was an expansive mansion— it had grown with the Brandybuck Clan over the decades, since Gorhendad Oldbuck had first broken ground east of the Brandywine, and now the network of tunnels spreading through Buck Hill could rival the Great Smials of Tuckborough.  In the glow of sunset, the slope of the Hill would shine as though it had been coated in liquid gold, when the scores of windows dotting its grassy incline would catch the rich, warm light and reflect it back, gilded and fiery.  It was quite a sight, visible even from across the river in the Marish.

It had been years before Thorin was born when his grandfather, Thror Brandybuck (after whom Thorin had been named, in the fashion of their particular branch of the family tree), had suffered something of a falling out with the Master of Buckland at the time, Mardoc “Proudneck” Brandybuck.  Tempers had run high over some slight of honour or other, sharp words had been tossed like stones, and the entire debacle had ended with Thror storming out of Brandy Hall with his young wife in tow, and digging his own smial on the other side of Bucklebury.

That was how the Lonely Hill had come to be: a roomy smial, not nearly as immense as Brandy Hall, but well-built and large enough for Thror’s family to comfortably grow.  There had been attempts to call the place Ravenhill or Raven’s Rook, for Thror was a proud hobbit and all smials of note had to bear a name.  There was a rookery not far behind the plot of hills, where a pair of fat, croaking ravens had made their home, but the birds hadn’t lingered long after Thror’s construction began, moving off to nest in the quiet of the Old Forest.  The story of the spat between Thror and Proudneck, and the ensuing split and migration of Thror’s family out of Brandy Hall, had coined the less complimentary moniker _The Lonely Hill_.

The name had stuck, because of the somewhat scandalous story and the smial’s location, just slightly set apart from the rest of the village.  As time healed the rift between branches of the Brandybuck tree, diluting bad blood and cooling tempers with every year that passed, any negative connotations had faded.  The Lonely Hill was no longer a name to be whispered with knowing looks and the occasional snicker, but rather it was an established smial, and impressive for all it wasn’t yet a century old.  

“I’m sure my parents wouldn’t want to impose, sir,” Drogo said, after swallowing his mouthful of cake, then ducked his head nervously as Thrain’s gaze shifted to him, seated to Bilbo’s left.  “I mean, with five of us and all, and my father’s already written to Master Gorbadoc, gotten the invitation to stay—”

Thorin watched from across the table as Bilbo reached out and patted a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, favouring Drogo with a lift of his brows and a slight smile.  Drogo, in return, closed his mouth so quickly the snap of his teeth was audible.

“Oh, but Bilbo must stay with us!”  The impish tone of Frerin’s voice immediately put Thorin on edge, and he glanced over to his brother, seated beside Thorin’s right elbow.  He managed to just catch Frerin’s wink, sent Bilbo’s way for whatever reason.  “It’s tradition— we’ve all piled into Bag End often enough, after all.”

“You are more than welcome, Bilbo,” Iris said, sitting on Thorin’s other side, and obviously preparing to tuck back into her lemon tart after recovering from her earlier hiccup of sadness.  “And you as well, Drogo, of course, but Bilbo, if you would rather stay nearer your mother, it’s no trouble at all, dear boy.”

“If you’re certain,” Bilbo said, smiling just enough to bracket one corner of his mouth with a curving dimple, and dipped a grateful nod to the rest of the Brandybucks seated around the table.  Thorin dropped his eyes back down to his plate when Bilbo’s attention flickered to him, suddenly quite engrossed in the remains of his sausage roll.  “Then I believe I shall take you up on your hospitality, thank you very much.  I think I can trust my cousin not to go traipsing up to Newbury on his own, even if we’re not attached at the hip.”

“I _wouldn’t_ —” Drogo sputtered, only to have his silverware ding clumsily against his plate when Thrain let out his great, booming laugh.

“By my soles, _I_ would’ve!”  Thrain gave the tabletop a smack, rattling cups against saucers.“When I was only a bit older than you, lad, I spent half an autumn camping rough in an orchard in the South Farthing, in a wee draughty tent, just so I could walk this one—” One of Thrain’s thick thumbs pointed boldly towards his wife, as Iris tutted under her breath.  “To market every other morning, and carry her parcels.  Rainiest blasted Halimath in decades, too; nearly drowned in that tent more than once.”

Thorin leaned forward, bracing an elbow on the edge of the table (he was fairly confident his mother was too distracted by her husband’s antics to flick him for it), and pressed his fingertips against the side of his head.  Cutting a quick look towards his siblings, he found them in similar moods— Frerin was staring into some middle distance, his brows furrowed together, while Dis was distracting herself by artfully piling more clotted cream onto a scone.  It wasn’t an overly embarrassing story, but any one of them could repeat it, word for word, from memory.  

“Forty years ago,” Thrain continued, as he always did.  “You would’ve had to leash me in the back garden to keep me from a lass I was sweet on.  My mother, rest her and bless her, nearly tried just that when I was set on wooing my Iris.  I crossed the Brandywine more often than a trout for, what was it, nearly three years of courting, love?”

“Yes, dear.”  Iris’ smile was fondly exasperated as she patted her husband’s wrist.  Thorin was relieved; it seemed she was going to nip Thrain’s reminiscing in the bud, before he could regale the Baggins chaps with the tale of trying to scale the Sackvilles’ tall garden wall late one night.  That had been the night young Thrain had gotten snagged by the seat of his trousers, and wound up stuck hanging ‘til morning, flushed purple like an overripe plum— which only served him right, Thorin’s mother would always say, for assuming he could sneak in and steal a kiss in the wee hours.   

“Brandybucks,” she said, shaking her head.  “As wild as Tooks and half as refined, I swear.  Young Drogo is a Baggins, my love, but still a spirited tween.  Do stop giving him ideas, or Ruby Baggins will have my hide.”

 

* * *

 

It was all simply more chattering after that, and Thorin ducked away from the table the moment he could politely do so… or perhaps _slightly_ sooner, if his mother’s frown was anything by which to judge his timing.

The Lonely Hill may not have been as grand as Brandy Hall, but there was still more than enough space for each of the children of Thrain and Iris Brandybuck to have their own bedroom, with guestrooms to spare.  When they had been younger, just wee fauntlings, Thorin and Frerin had often piled into the same bed, curled close to each other like sleeping kittens, and Dis had wormed her way into that fold later on, once she was old enough to toddle.  But even then, they had each enjoyed their own territory, their own room, if they cared to use it.

That privilege had always been more important to Thorin than it was to his siblings— he could not remember a time when he was not occasionally struck by cravings for solitude.  For time with only his own mind for company, time to organize his thoughts without distraction, and sometimes simply a moment to catch his breath, unhindered.  Without that space, that quiet and calm, he would invariably grow exhausted, snappish, and unsettled in his own skin.  

That was as true now, at nearly thirty-four years old, as it had been when he was a squealing faunt, uneasy and wide-eyed when held for too long in the arms of any adult but his closest relations.  A nearly silent babe, not inclined to wail with loneliness when left alone.  Or so his mother had told him.   

It wasn’t terribly surprising that Thorin found himself scuttling off to his own room at the moment, escaping the strangeness of the day and the presence of their guests.

Closing his bedroom door firmly behind himself, Thorin leaned back against it and took a deep, grounding breath.  Lithedays were the one time of year he was nearly guaranteed there would be no neighbours coming to call, cluttering up the parlor with their chatter.  Attending Free Fair wasn’t considered _quite_ as essential amongst Bucklanders as it was for Shirefolk, with the White Downs so far to the west, but it was a profitable celebration for those looking to peddle wares at the great market.  It was also the finest excuse for a roaring party.  There was hardly a hobbit west of Bree who didn’t make the trip every few years at least, and more than a few Bucklanders made the journey annually.

But now, he’d have nearly a month to get used to the Bagginses being underfoot before they were gone again.  Weeks of bumping into Bilbo Baggins, in the corridors of Thorin’s own home.   

Privately, Thorin expected it might take him more than a month to get used to _that_.

Taking another breath, Thorin pushed away from the door and moved farther into his bedroom, flopping down into his desk chair with a huff.  There wasn’t anything to be done for it, except bear the situation.  And seeing Missus Baggins again… well.  Thorin wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that, except that there was a tight ache in his chest when he thought of it.  Missus Baggins, without her husband following behind her quick, trotting steps, or resting his hand on hers when the couple walked with linked arms.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Thorin made all good efforts to push that cold, achy stone down deeper, into his gut.  Somewhere far enough away from his heart that it might not trouble him; somewhere he could brick it up and gird himself from its sting.

Having the Bagginses staying for Lithedays meant more than just a full smial— there was also the question of whether or not to include them in his birthday preparations.  

Thorin would, as ever, be sharing his birthday with Mid-year’s Day.  Smack in the middle of the Lithedays celebrations, it had always been a subdued affair amongst their neighbours: not quite overlooked but certainly overshadowed.  He was certain to receive a small favour from Master Broadbelt, as was traditional, and a few of his cousins might bring a gift in the week leading up to the festival days, but they were as likely to forget in such a busy time.  

His mother had always tried to make a special effort, baking his favourite blackberry pie for tea on his birthday eve, with fresh cream whipped fluffy and tart with a hint of lemon, and his father would invariably sneak up upon him at some point during the day, smearing Thorin’s nose with butter (to help him _slip into the next year_ , or so said Brandybuck tradition).  But by and large, Thorin’s birthday came and went each year, easily outdone by the grander excitement of Lithe.

This year, Thorin would be turning thirty-four years old.  And as a hobbit grown and come into his own, the gifts he would give to his close family were going to be better than the nosegays of flowers and other simple trifles expected from a tween.

Thorin sat up in his chair, pushing aside a few scraps of paper and bottles of ink, and reached down to pull open a drawer in the small cupboard he had wedged beside his desk.  Fetching the latched wooden box inside, while leaving behind the wrapped bundle of tools and other incidentals that had rested atop the lid, Thorin set the box on his desktop, pushing the drawer closed with one foot.  Drumming his fingers against the golden grain of the wood, Thorin frowned.

It wasn’t necessary for him to give the Bagginses gifts— technically, as the byrding, he was meant to give gifts to all his close neighbours, and a fair number of his relations, but Bucklanders weren’t as strict about such things as Shirefolk, and Thorin’s family was even less fussy than that.  He had gotten away with passing out gifts to only his parents and siblings for years, and that would continue to be the extent of it.  The Bagginses, however, were neither neighbour nor kin.

Still, they were guests, and would be staying in the Lonely Hill during whatever sort of party his family would spring upon him.  Thorin had no intention of putting presents together for the dozens of cousins who lived in Brandy Hall, just on the other side of Bucklebury, but guests in his own home… it only seemed right to give them something.  Missus Baggins and Bilbo, at least.

Give them _what_ , that was the question.

Flipping the latch open, Thorin lifted the box lid and peered inside, shuffling the contents idly with the tip of one thick finger.  His boat had not been his only project over the winter months, merely his largest.

The combs, he had painstakingly carved from lime wood— there had been countless snapped, ruined attempts until he managed to work out the best way to carve the teeth, but in the finished combs he’d managed were functional and strong.  They had a fine grain, smooth and pale, and had come from a dried branch he’d found snapped off a gnarled old tree, growing farther along the road towards Crickhollow.  He had carved a set of two each for his mother and sister, one for head and one for feet, but it was still a fortnight until Lithedays.  With some experience under his belt now, he might manage to carve another set in time, and if not, he could split the gifts easily enough— one comb each, with one left over, or perhaps the full set given to Missus Baggins, and one each for his mother and Dis (he could always make more, once the Bagginses were gone back to Hobbiton).

For Frerin, Thorin had carved a few simple fishing floats and lures from a scrap of pine, painted bright red, yellow, and green, with sharp iron fishhooks screwed in place, as well as a couple new floats for himself— the brothers would often go fishing together down on the Brandywine, and Dis was known to tag along as well when the fancy struck her.  Thorin had little doubt he would be harangued into taking them both out in the punt, at some point or other, though he would put his foot down at taking more than one of them at a time.  The wee boat would just _barely_ hold two hobbits comfortably and safely, if they weren’t being fools about it.

Finally, for his father, Thorin had done a paperweight from lime wood: a thick oval, bigger than a closed fist and flattened to sit steadily, polished to a mirror shine.  It was the simplest gift, but strangely appealing— when the light struck it just right, the smooth, nearly bone-white surface seemed almost to flare with some inner glow, faceted by the fine wood grain.  And it was useful, which his father would appreciate more than anything.

A season’s worth of learning, of work, splinters, and sore fingers.  Of chipping away at bits of wood in the privacy of his room, and tossing more than one disastrous failure into the kitchen hearth.

Now he had a fortnight to figure out something comparable to give to Bilbo.  Something appropriate.

It should have been a simple matter— simpler than thinking of gifts for his family, at any rate.  It wasn’t as though he needed to come up with something meaningful, just pleasant.  A small gift for an acquaintance; a friend of the family, but no friend of Thorin’s.

Even so, by the time Thorin crawled into bed much later that night, his mind was blank and his annoyance with himself was slowly mounting.  Every idea that had struck him, from afternoon on into evening, had seemed frustratingly inadequate.

Rather than linger on _why_ it mattered so very much, Thorin burrowed sullenly into his quilts, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit of blood and injury in this chapter, so do be careful if you're squeamish. Nothing terribly serious.

It was the dark of predawn, soft angles and murky grey, with only the barest hints of peach and pink sunlight peeking over the Old Forest, beginning to warm the world toward dawn. It was too early for Thorin to be awake, and yet there he was, sitting up blearily in his bed, profoundly confused about what might have roused him.

Then there was another rattle at his window, a staccato tapping against the glass, and Thorin blinked at the muzzy shadow he could just make out on the other side.

Bucklanders hung billhooks and clubs in their entrance ways, and kept up a militia and a great hedge to help keep the dark and the danger from creeping up upon them from the east. Perhaps, had Thorin been born and raised a Shire lad, he might have been trusting enough not to feel a twist of cold fear in his gut at the sight of a strange figure outside his bedroom window. Or, conversely, a lad of Shire breeding might have shrieked like a trod-on cat when faced with such a thing.

It hardly mattered— Thorin was a Bucklander to his bones, and he knew it was sometimes wise to be afraid of shadows. It was also wise to keep cool head, and have something within reach that might save one’s life. It was with those lessons in mind that Thorin reached over the side of his bed, finding a grip on his hand axe by feel and memory.

Then Thorin’s sleep blurred vision cleared enough to better make out the hobbitish shape, entirely familiar, and he dropped his axe again, snarling to himself.

Frerin twiddled his fingers in a little wave, with his grinning face pressed against the window. He was going to leave smears on the glass, damn him, and that was even before Thorin finished turning him into paste.

Shoving the quilts aside and swinging his legs out of bed, Thorin stalked over to the window with thunder brewing in his breast. Unlocking the latch, he pushed the pane open, making no effort to be cautious and nearly catching Frerin’s nose in the process.

“ _What_ ,” he growled, his voice rougher than burlap with the dryness of sleep, and only _then_ did he notice that Frerin was not alone.

“Wake up, you slug,” his brother whispered, still grinning too broad and bright for so early in the day, while Bilbo and Drogo Baggins, as well as Dis, shuffled from foot to foot in the dewy grass of the garden. The lot of them were dressed, but in nothing fit for tea— Dis was in a pair of trousers, and even Bilbo had foregone his fancy embroidered waistcoat in favour of what looked like a plain woolen one.

“We’re going fishing,” Frerin said, still speaking quietly. As if the rods and baskets they were toting didn’t give their purpose away. “You coming?”

Fishing with his siblings wasn’t something Thorin often begged off— they were good company, when they weren’t being irritating little beasts, and the calm of the river almost always seemed to leech a wee bit into them both. Fishing with his siblings, and company besides? That was different.

“Drogo’s never been fishing, can you believe,” Dis piped up, her words teasing, and young Drogo ducked his head, scratching one foot with the other. “He can hardly think about courting Cousin Betony if he can’t cast a line, for goodness sake.”

“Lasses and fishes, hardly any difference. You know how it is,” Frerin said, and suffered a swat from Dis for his trouble. “Ow! Leave off, ferret! You’re the one who said it first.”

“Shut it, both of you,” Thorin snapped, crossing his arms somewhat awkwardly. He was only in his nightshirt, which was pale, thin linen, and unbuttoned at the throat low enough to let his dark chest hair peek out. And speaking of his hair, he had little doubt that his head was a proper mess, flattened and tangled around his ears. At least the window ledge was high enough to hide his naked, knobbly knees from all and sundry, but he was still entirely inappropriate for mixed company. Especially when that company included Bilbo Baggins, who looked as handsome and as polished up as a persnickety gammer’s teaspoons even when dressed down.

Bilbo yawned, hiding it politely behind his hand, and murmured a soft _pardon_ before speaking slightly louder.

“We’ve packed some breakfast,” he said, lifting the covered basket looped over his elbow, and levelling Thorin with a strange, amused sort of smile. “If you need more incentive. And, well, your company certainly wouldn’t go amiss.”

The sky beyond the window was still mostly dark, somewhat cloudy with mottled grey wisps further to the west, though it didn’t look like rain. The faintest night breeze was ruffling the greenery, almost unnoticed except for the sweet floral scent of the garden gusting upon it. It might very well be a decent morning for fish, at least.

That certainly didn’t mean Thorin had to tag along, however. He could easily go back to bed, and sleep in peace until a reasonable hour.

“Let me grab my kit,” he said, too quickly, and fumbled to close the window.

“Thrown on trousers too, if you don’t mind,” Frerin called in a loud whisper, before the glass closed on his words, and Thorin decided to push him into the river at least once that day.

Since he kept his nicer clothes safely folded away in their own drawer, Thorin didn’t bother with lighting a lamp. Groping half-blind in the shadowy room, he managed to put hands on underthings, trousers, braces, and a clean shirt, and fetch his fishing gear from its corner. Balancing the rod over one shoulder, Thorin tucked the leather satchel of hooks and lures into his pocket; his creel was still in his punt, to keep any lingering fishy smell soaked into the wicker from stinking up his room, but it wouldn’t take more than a moment to grab it before they headed out.

Thorin shuffled out into the corridor, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible so as not to risk waking his parents at this ridiculous hour before the cockerels were even stirring. The air outside held only the barest hint of nighttime chill, not enough to bother with a coat, and Thorin was still tucking his shirttails into his waistband when he slipped out into the crisp breeze.

The others had come around to the front door, expecting his exit, and Thorin yanked his hand out of his trousers as though he’d been burnt the moment he realised he had an audience.

“Need to fetch my creel,” he said, pulling the door shut behind himself, pleased when the blue painted wood only gave the softest _thud_ when it hit the frame.

“Can we bring your wee skiff?” Frerin asked, teeth flashing even in the predawn.

“No,” Thorin and Bilbo said at nearly precisely the same time, though Thorin’s tone was noticeably sharper.

“Ah, sorry,” Bilbo said, and dipped a shallow nod, as though deferring to Thorin. “Just, you said it can’t hold three safely, didn’t you?”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Dis said. “When there’s always at least three of us.”

Thorin swallowed back the harshest of the comments that sprung to his mind, turning instead to head off and get his fish basket. “You can be smarter about it when you build your own boat, Miss Cirdan. And it’s a punt, not a skiff. Come on; we’d best get down to the river before we lose the morning.”

There was a mutter from back in Dis’ direction, sounding somewhat like _grumpy old bear_ , but Thorin turned a deaf ear to the insult in favour of focusing on his sister’s poorly concealed laughter. They sniped at each other, certainly, but the three of them got on much better than they fought.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a long walk down from the Lonely Hill to the Brandywine, especially if one wasn’t weighted down carrying a punt, and knew all the shortcuts and side paths the children of Thrain and Iris Brandybuck had long ago committed to memory. The brightening sky was creeping in from the east, over the ancient treetops of the Old Forest, as inky night was overtaken by the rich hues of dawn, blue like larkspur blossoms, slashed with clouds lit fiery pink and orange. It made it easier to avoid the ruts and roots of their impromptu path, and the five of them managed to make it within sight of the river without a single twisted ankle or broken neck.

There was one more fence to climb, where the shallow pitch of a pasture gave way to the steep slope leading down towards the riverbank, and Frerin took off in a dead run across the field when it came into view, vaulting the fence with an eager _whoop_ when he reached it. Apparently, he was content that they were far enough away from their neighbours that his hollering wouldn’t bother anyone. Drogo, caught up in his own youthful exuberance, followed close on Frerin’s heels (though the Baggins lad nearly fumbled his landing, he managed to clear the fence), and neither was Dis far behind, squealing and darting off, squeezing between the fence rails, her long dark braid swinging out behind her.

Thorin had little interest in a pinwheeling dash down a dewy hill, which was a sentiment it seemed Bilbo shared.

“Don’t you dare fall in!” Bilbo called out, though didn’t speed his pace to keep up. Instead, he paused a step and shifted, moving to fall in line and walk closer to Thorin’s side now that the others weren’t milling and ambling around them. Thorin’s posture stiffened immediately, and then even more so when Bilbo looked over at him from barely an arm’s reach away. The dimness of dawn had fashioned Bilbo’s face in soft curves and blunted angles, not unpleasantly. Thorin imagined the wan light was far less forgiving to his own severe features.

“Good morning,” Bilbo said, with a small, coaxing sort of smile playing around his mouth. “I realized I hadn’t said a proper good morning since we woke you. And in such unusual fashion, too, tapping on window panes like… hm. Like polite burglars.”

Thorin snorted, adjusting the leather strap of his creel where it was slung over his shoulder. There was something equally relieving and annoying about having the wicker basket hanging between Bilbo and himself. It was an odd sort of thing to notice, but it caught under Thorin’s skin like a fishhook nonetheless.

“I wish it was unusual,” he said. “They come to the window if they don’t want to bother the household— our father is almost sure to wake if there’s talk in the hallway, and Mother wakes if Father does.”

“Thoughtful.” Bilbo hummed, then ever so gently knocked his shoulder against Thorin’s arm. He was still smiling, carving a crescent of dimple in one smooth cheek, and Thorin felt his empty belly tighten. “Or, thoughtful enough for a pair of scamps who drag you out of bed before the crack of dawn.”

“It’s not—” Thorin cleared his throat, and hoped there was a canteen of water in that picnic basket looped in the crook of Bilbo’s elbow. He was unaccountably parched, and his voice was hoarse from it, yet he continued to speak. “It’s not the earliest they’ve come calling. Did you see, Afteryule the year before last, that shower of Elbereth’s Tears?”

It had been a rare sight: streaks of light burning white across the clear black sky as dozens of stars fell, yet left the swaths of other twinkling stars and constellations somehow whole and unbroken. It had also been a long, cold night to sit atop the roof of the Lonely Hill and watch such a show, but Thorin had done it, wrapped in thick blankets with Dis tucked close in between his knees and Frerin wedging himself under the mantel of Thorin’s arm. Thrain and Iris, much cleverer than their offspring, had chosen to watch the celestial whizzpoppers from the warmth of inside the smial, peering out through the frosty windows.

“You _didn’t_ ,” Bilbo said, pitched high with disbelief. They had come upon the fence, finally, and Bilbo leaned against it rather than making any move to climb over. “The Tears were beautiful, but Thorin, I remember that night— there was snow piled up to your knees in Hobbiton, and I’m guessing it was just as thick in Buckland.”

“Thicker.” Following suit, Thorin lingered by the fence as well, resting his shoulder against one sturdy post. Not too far away, he could hear the younger hobbits chattering and laughing. “And bitter with frost. But we cleared a spot on the roof, up on the crest of the hill. It wasn’t so bad, for all it was the middle of the night.”

“Oi, need a boost over the fence, Gaffer?” Frerin’s voice called from below, startling Bilbo enough to jerk back. They were standing closer together than Thorin had expected, and the realization made gooseflesh creep over him, even more than the cool dew soaking his feet.

Twice. Thorin was going to push his bothersome brother in the river twice, at least. Maybe hold him under.

Ignoring Frerin entirely, Thorin braced his arms on the fence rail, careful of his fishing rod, and swung his legs up and over. It wasn’t a high fence, just enough to discourage Mandolf Bracegirdle’s sheep from wandering off, but courtesy prompted Thorin to offer Bilbo a hand over.

“Do you—” he started to say, only to have Bilbo level him with a _look_ , both brows rising toward his hairline.

“I might have seen a few more winters, but I’m no gaffer either, you know,” Bilbo said, and Thorin found his arms pressed full of picnic basket when Bilbo passed it across. Stepping back slightly, Bilbo allowed himself a short run off before he was up and over with a slight flail of limbs, not precisely _graceful_ , but better than Drogo had done.

Thorin could feel the tips of his ears burning like coals, and prayed silently that the dimness would hide the cherry red flush he knew would be shining there, fully exposed with his hair tied back. _I’m no gaffer either_.

When Thorin had been a gawky tween, the five years separating their ages had seemed as vast and impassable as the Old Forest— Bilbo Baggins had always been older, more mature in his bearing and more cordial of manners, finer of looks and cleverer of speech. Five years had felt longer than the Ages of the world, when stretched between the sort of poised gentlehobbit Bilbo was, and the awkward mess Thorin had always been. As a lad, Thorin could never quite imagine bridging that gap; no matter how many years passed, he had never been able to see himself growing into anything approaching the handsome figure Bilbo Baggins cut.

Now that they were both of age, neither tweens anymore, Thorin rankled at the notion that Bilbo might still see him as nothing more than a wee boy. He rankled, and also despaired that it had been his ill-considered words that had prompted the topic.

Thorin didn’t delude himself that he was especially skilled at banter— Frerin and Dis had been gifted in that respect, with quick, easy humour, and tongues of gold and silver. Thorin’s tongue was more often lead in his mouth.

“Of course you’re not,” he said, much harsher than he’d intended, sounding too defensive to encourage the strange ease of their previous conversation to return. It was the sort of curt tone his mother would still chastise him for, claiming she could hear “ _don’t be stupid”_ tacked upon the end of his words, even if he kept it silent.

Bilbo gained his feet and took back his basket without further discussion, starting off down the grassy slope. Silently mouthing a curse, another impolite habit for which his mother would have given him a chewing out, Thorin took off after Bilbo, long legs catching up almost immediately. He was treated to a sharp glance out of the corner of those formerly cheery eyes, and his pride had him glaring right back, rather than turning away or fumbling over some sort of apology.

He hadn’t meant to offend, but he’d managed it. It hadn’t even taken a full day.

In his defense, it seemed that Bilbo Baggins was still the overly sensitive fusspot he’d always been.

“Finally,” Dis said when they made it to the riverbank. “Thought you got lost.”

Frerin appeared behind her, and gave her braid a tug if her squawk and the jerk of her head was any indication. “And I thought I told you to go dig up some bait, ferret. Hurry up—”

“Better a ferret than a toad!” Dis elbowed Frerin’s ribs, hard enough to earn a grunt, and Thorin did not envy his brother that sharp, bony jab. “And I’m digging up nothing. Here.”

Reaching into the pocket of her baggy trousers, which had formerly been Thorin’s, Dis pulled out a rectangular wooden box, barely longer than her palm, and pushed the sliding lid open. Immediately, a wet, thickly earthy smell wafted up, overtaking even the marshy scent of the river.

“Got them from the garden, last night.” Dis pushed the box of worms and soil into Frerin’s hands, then wiped her palms on her thighs. “Because of the three of us, at least I’ve been blessed with more forethought than a turnip. Don’t drop them, or _you’ll_ be digging for more.”

“Clever little ferret,” Frerin cooed, ducking gamely away from another elbowing, before scampering farther down the bank, toward where Drogo was standing well back from the shore.

“Drogo can’t swim,” Dis said, quietly enough to keep her voice from carrying, and peered up at Thorin with a deadly serious furrow between her brows. “So no roughhousing by the water.”

Nodding, Bilbo glanced out at the wide swathe of dark water, the current running slow and calm in this little bend they’d chosen as their fishing spot. He didn’t spare a flicker of attention for Thorin. “That would be much appreciated, Miss Dis. I can barely paddle myself.”

Shirefolk were odd, no two ways about it. Thorin distinctly remembered the clear, refreshing water of Bywater Pool, a lovely little pond only a short trek from Hobbiton, and how much of a fuss he and his siblings had caused by diving in and splashing about on particularly sweltering summer days. The most adventurous Tooks rarely did more than dip toes into the pond, even in the worst heat of the beating sun.

Thorin left his sister to prattle on to Bilbo about the merits of at least a basic swimming ability— he didn’t put good odds on the likelihood of convincing skittish Bagginses to take a dip in the Brandywine, when even his charming siblings had never been able to coax more than a scant few Shirefolk into the shallows of the Bywater. Frerin was standing near Drogo, explaining the best way to flick a rod to avoid snagging yourself or your mates with a poorly cast hook, and Thorin plodded farther up the shore, finding the large rock he knew from experience would be there.

He was, perhaps, somewhat frustrated with himself for snapping at Bilbo without cause. Speaking cordially with the other hobbit wasn’t something he’d imagined would come of this morning. Not simply niceties, but a proper conversation; not a _bad_ conversation, either. Bilbo, apparently, had inherited his father’s knack for listening, in that engaged, earnest sort of way.

Settling down to perch on his rock, which was just wide enough to seat a hobbit and a basket of gear and elevated enough to give a good range for casting, Thorin pulled his case of lures and hooks out of his pocket. The voices of the others faded to a background hum as he tied on the lure he wanted, foregoing the live bait in favour of a bright green wooden minnow, with a small, polished copper disk gleaming opposite the hook. It had been his father’s, bought from some travelling merchants years before, and Thorin had inherited it as Thrain’s trips down to the river had become less frequent.

Drawing back his arm, Thorin sent his line arcing out over the water, which was beginning to reflect the warmer shades of dawn from the sky. His lure hit with a soft splash, followed swiftly by the plop of his float, and the ripples of water glinted golden and pink with the rising sun.

What did he care if Bilbo Baggins took offense at his tone? Come Afterlithe, when the festivities were through and their house guests were gone back westward, Thorin might very well never clap eyes upon Bilbo again. The Bagginses weren’t frequent visitors to Buckland, after all, and Thorin didn’t foresee having business in the Shire very often… unless he decided to take up a trade, and leave their family fortune for Frerin and Dis to use and invest as they wished. If he chose to make his living that way, the villages of the west offered bustling markets that could only truly be ignored at a craftsperson’s peril.

The gentle breeze brought the scent of freesia and wet grass; Thorin took a deep breath, filling his chest. There was no need to vex himself with such thoughts at the moment; the river was serene and so could he be. Some short distance away, the others were chatting, laughing, but none of them tried to draw him in on the joke.

Eventually, he heard when one of them, possibly Frerin based on his excited crowing, caught the first fish of the morning. Thorin’s own creel was still empty, save for some moss to keep his own potential catch cool and fresh, and he hadn’t had so much as a nibble yet.

Drawing the line back, Thorin considered the lure for a moment, rolling it between his fingers and testing the sharpness of the barbs. It didn’t take much pressure at all to make a tiny drop of blood well up at the end of his thumb, even through his calluses. Sharp enough, and he’d had good luck with this lure at this spot before, catching many a fat, brassy roach. Admittedly, any perch swimming about would likely prefer the live bait, but Thorin wasn’t keen on getting up to fetch worms. His seat was comfortable, the river lapping against his feet in soothing eddies that swirled around the edges of his boulder, and he found he vastly preferred the idea of ignoring Bilbo Baggins, rather than suffer being ignored by the other hobbit.

He was content with the lure, for the moment. Patience was key, and no small amount of luck— when it came to fishing (but scant few other things, it must be said), Thorin was blessed with both.

Shifting on his rock, Thorin chose a better angle and flicked his line backward, preparing to cast it back out into the river. He certainly didn’t expect to catch something on land, snagging his line, nor did he expect the thump and pained cry that followed.

“Ah!” Thorin scrambled to his feet immediately, keeping his fishing rod in hand to reduce the chance of further damage. Standing not far behind him, curled over at the waist, Bilbo was clutching his shoulder and yelping. The picnic basket he had carried from the Lonely Hill was lying on the grass at his feet, tipped to one side. “ _Ah_ , ow, oh that’s not good. Oh, _oh_!”

“Stay still, Bilbo.” Even without the fuss to direct him, Thorin’s line would have led him right over to where his hook had caught. Making sure there was enough line to keep from pulling, Thorin set the rod carefully down beside the basket, and laid his hand on Bilbo’s uninjured shoulder. “Easy. You’ll make it worse.”

“ _Thorin_.” The sound of his name, gritted out between Bilbo’s clenched teeth, only served to squeeze the knot of guilt tighter around Thorin’s heart. What a foolish, childish mistake, not checking behind himself before he cast. “It’s rather worse right now, if you don’t mind. Honestly, this, _ah_ , this is _very_ unpleasant.”

“Let me see.” Giving Bilbo’s other arm a gentle squeeze, much as he’d done for his siblings through the splinters and scraped knees of the past, as well as a fishhook or two, Thorin urged him to straighten up enough to get a good look at the damage. By this time, the others had noticed the commotion, and were fluttering around the edges of Thorin’s awareness.

“What happened?” Drogo was asking, even as Dis called out Thorin’s name, and Frerin cursed, loud and inventive.

“Clear off, the lot of you,” Thorin barked, sparing only an instant to turn a meaningful scowl their way. “It’s just the meat of his shoulder. I’ll have the hook out shortly, but your squalling isn’t helping.”

It was Frerin who remembered his head first, or possibly remembered the sting of a fishhook in flesh and the worse pain of its removal, and firmly hustled the others away. Bilbo’s breath was hissing on every inhale, and Thorin could see the pallor sweeping up his cheeks, with the sun fully risen now and the morning bright upon them.

Thorin had stretched the truth every so slightly— the hook was caught too far to the left to have struck the meatiest part of Bilbo’s right shoulder, where it might have been deflected by his jacket and weskit. Instead, it had embedded itself just over his collarbone, still more shoulder than throat, but not by much— precisely where a single layer of shirt was the only thing between Bilbo’s skin and the sharpened iron.

There was a tiny spot of blood seeping into the creamy fabric; there would likely be a bit more still, when Thorin removed the hook.

“Let me see,” Thorin said again, quiet but firm, and to his credit, Bilbo only flinched away briefly before keeping still as he needed to. Taking care not to jostle the fabric, Thorin pushed Bilbo’s green neckerchief out of the way, enough to lift the collar of his shirt and get a better look at the damage.

It wasn’t terrible— the shirt had helped somewhat, keeping the tip from digging in too far. Still, there was nothing pleasant about pulling a barbed hook.

“It’s not deep,” Thorin murmured, and with his head bent so close, he could feel the puff of Bilbo’s strained chuckle ghosting across his forehead.

“Not deep?” Bilbo chuckled again, nearly a wheeze, and Thorin nearly leapt back at the first hard clutch of Bilbo’s fingers against his ribs, grasping a handful of Thorin’s shirt and holding tight. “Ah, good. I’ll take your word for that. You can get it out, you said?”

“I can.” Thorin allowed Bilbo’s hand to keep hold of him, but he did lean back just enough to look Bilbo in the eye. “It’s going to hurt, more than it does now, but it’s the only way. Unless you’d rather try cutting it out with my knife.”

“ _No_.” Fingers at Thorin’s ribs flexed, not quite clawing. “No, no, no cutting, no knives if we can help it. It’s not too bad, really, just stings, and ah, I want it _out_ —”

“Breathe in, Bilbo.” Glancing down at the hook, Thorin took hold of the end, and then looked back up into Bilbo’s face. He saw pain there, of course, and a measure of fear, but at the centre, there was still calmness. Behind Bilbo’s wet eyes, there shone some sort of sturdy, unexpectedly determined core, bright as daylight.

“Deep breath,” he said, his mouth gone dry again, and his voice little more than a rasp. Still, Bilbo did as he was bid, his chest expanding with air. “Now, I have to loosen the barb. This will hurt.”

“So you said.” Bilbo’s smile was a quaking thing, and Thorin felt a similar unsteady feeling in his gut. “I trust you, Thorin.”

That unsteady feeling turned tremulous, crashing and sloshing about behind his ribs like the Brandywine in an autumn gale, but Thorin managed to keep his hands on more even a keel than his belly.

“Breathe out,” he said, and when he felt that cool exhale, Thorin pressed the hook downward and in. Bilbo’s breathing hitched, edged with a whine, but then Thorin felt the barb slip free, and the rest of the hook pulled loose in one slick movement.

Propriety was not fore in his mind as Thorin lifted Bilbo’s shirt collar completely away, baring a wedge of pale skin, smooth as a fresh peach, save for the vividly red smear of blood just below the crook of his neck. The small wound from the hook was oozing sluggishly, but Thorin saw no thread or bits of cloth left behind.

“Do you think I’ll live?” The sound of Bilbo’s question, even quiet as it was, still startled Thorin like a thunderclap. Jerking back, dropping the stained collar still pinched between his fingers, Thorin made to step away, only to realise Bilbo’s hand was still tangled in the side of his shirt. There was much less panic and desperation in the grip now, the lack of which somehow only managed to fluster Thorin further.

“Aye,” he said, and was not entirely certain whether he felt more relief or disappointment when Bilbo’s hold on him finally released, allowing him to put a more respectable distance between them. Nor was he certain why he felt such a surge of either. “Yes, you’ll probably live. Do we have clean water to rinse the wound?”

“Oh, don’t call it a wound, for goodness sake; I’ll get lightheaded.” Prodding gingerly at his neck, miles away from the actual puncture, Bilbo still winced before bending down to gather up the picnic basket he’d dropped. “I expect I’ve had worse trying to mend a button. Though, that has warned me off trying to ply you into conversation with an offer of breakfast.”

Rising up again, Bilbo had gained back a hint of colour, flushing rosy pink over the apples of his cheeks. He made something of a show of lifting the basket lid, and indeed there was breakfast to be had, only slightly worse for wear after the tumble into the grass.

“I’ve never had scones and plum jam refused so dramatically before,” Bilbo said, and there was that smile again, sitting crooked on his face. Teasing, or perhaps just playful— there was no malice in it that Thorin could see, even with the blood shed between them now.

And speaking of blood shed.

“What did you think you were doing, Bilbo?” Now that the situation was resolved, or as much as possible, Thorin could feel shame sweep upon him like wildfire, licking at his feet and threatening to blaze upward, consuming him. Dis and Frerin knew to keep back from behind an angler without announcing themselves, but such knowledge wasn’t bred in the bone, it was taught, and Bilbo could hardly be expected to know it. Regardless, Thorin was all too aware that one glance backward on his own part would have saved them all from this mess.

A bit higher, and the hook might have caught Bilbo’s face, his eye, and what then?

“Ridiculous, stupid mistake,” Thorin continued, utterly furious with himself. “I could have _blinded_ you.”

It was that anger that ruled his movements, as Thorin gave his well-loved fishing rod a sharp kick, sending it rolling across the grass and down towards the water. He didn’t have so much as a speck of care whether the blasted thing ended up floating downstream for leagues, drifting all the way south to the sea. There was sour fire in his gut, and Thorin knew from years of experience that in his current mood, he was not fit for anything but solitude.

“Frerin!” he shouted, and found he was no longer able to look Bilbo in the face. Not until he’d gathered his shattered pride back around himself, like the ruins of a crumbled fortress.

Frerin trampled towards them in an instant, and Thorin nodded to his brother, waving a hand in Bilbo’s direction without glancing over. “See that rinsed with clean water, not from the river. And don’t bother with my gear; I’ll be back for it myself.”

“Thorin,” Frerin began to say, but fell silent when Thorin shouldered past him and stalked away, with long, determined strides eating up the distance. Dis didn’t call for him; she knew the darker shades of his moods better than most, suffering her own foul tempers. Hers were rarer, but they struck just as fiercely.

Thorin had no specific aim or direction chosen for his retreat, only _away_. He headed back up to Mandolf’s field, now dotted with sheep and lambs grazing for their breakfasts, and hopped the fence again. A few of the animals startled at his entrance, bleating and trundling away.

Home would be little comfort, especially if his parents decided to question his return without the others; Thorin turned north instead, following the fence.


	5. Chapter 5

It was late afternoon before Thorin found his way back to their fishing spot, and of course his siblings had paid no attention to his instructions— his fishing gear was gone, no doubt toted back home. Even his rod was missing, though whether it had been gathered up, or truly lost to the river’s current, Thorin didn’t know.

His stomach growled, loudly enough to send a few finches flitting from a nearby bush, and his mind drifted to thoughts of scones and plum jam. He hadn’t eaten yet that day, save for a few handfuls of blackberries he had picked during his voluntary exile, trudging through scrub land and skipping stones across the river.

He had still made a dangerous mistake, and shown himself to be a childish fool in front of Bilbo Baggins, but at least the hours of contemplation had allowed Thorin to gain control of his pulse at the thought of it.

The walk home felt dreary, despite the clear, robin’s egg blue of the afternoon sky, and the refreshing hint of fragrant breeze. Thorin’s steps yearned to drag as Brandy Hall came into view, vaulting vast in its hill, but he was not a recalcitrant lad shuffling toward a scolding, and he refused to act as if he was. Instead, he kept his pace even and his head high, offering bland greetings to neighbours and relations as he passed.

Beyond Buck Hill, then through the lanes of Bucklebury, there was no wish Thorin could make that would lengthen his journey. The Lonely Hill loomed ahead, on the far side of the village opposite Brandy Hall, with its blue door bright and cheery amongst the green and rainbow of flowers.

He slipped inside the front garden, clinging tight to a kernel of hope that his entrance might go unnoticed for at least a short while, only to have that hope dashed the moment he turned from latching the gate.

His mother stood in the now open front doorway, fists on her hips, and Thorin immediately shrank back from the force of her frown. There was a wooden spoon clutched in one of her hands, and for a single mad second, he felt a chill at the thought of a rap across the knuckles, or even across the arse. He had many a cousin who had felt the sting of their mothers’ wrath in such a way, though Iris Brandybuck had never raised a hand to any of her children, nor indeed had Thrain. The thought of disappointing his mother so badly that she might try to give him such a punishment for the first time, now as a grown hobbit, suddenly seemed far too real and too mortifying a possibility.

“Thorin Brandybuck,” she said, words dropping with all the weight of millstones. “Come here.”

Again, Thorin stopped his soles from scuffing, lifting his feet as he marched up to where his mother stood.

“You’ve been gone hours, Thorin.” His head ducked without his permission, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, trying vainly not to squirm. “And had not a single bite to eat all day, have you?”

The press of warm hands on either side of his face was hardly expected, but Thorin submitted to his mother’s handling, meeting her gaze when she turned his head to face her. She had to stretch to reach him like this, at his weedy height.  When he had been a faunt, she had often held his cheeks with ease, her fingers gentle and palms smelling of flour.

“I swear, you and your wandering,” she said, her grip becoming a light tug. Thorin bent as she bade him, and was rewarded with a kiss on the bold bridge of his nose. “You’ve no idea how cross I’ll be if you starve yourself to death.”

“I had some blackberries,” he said, and that earned a pinch, squeezing his cheeks.

“You’re not a bird, Thorin; you can hardly expect a full belly pecking away at berries.” His mother released him as quickly as she’d nabbed him, stepping back and ushering him inside. “Go, get to the kitchen. There’s chicken stew and bread, and some biscuits left from tea— and there’s a roast in for supper, which you’ll be eating with the family, no arguments. Get!”

She did smack him then, a swat of her spoon across the seat of his trousers as he passed her, but it was barely firm enough to be felt. It was enough to get him moving, however, dashing off down the corridor toward the familiar comforts of the kitchen, and the rich smells of roasting meat and vegetables. His stomach, traitor that it was, roared its aching displeasure again, prompting his mother to begin clucking over him in earnest, all but dragging him into a chair and shoving a bowl of warm, hearty stew into his hands.

“Eat,” she snapped, brandishing the spoon like a sword, but to be quite honest, Thorin found he did not need the coaxing. The promise of food and the banquet of delicious scents had awoken his half-slumbering appetite with a vengeance, and he dug into the stew with something approaching embarrassing relish.

Thorin was no less fond of food than any other hobbit, but he did admittedly have a tendency to disregard a proper meal schedule now and then, for one reason or another. His stomach would always complain, eventually, and his mother had threatened to hunt him down with a pack lunch on more than one occasion.

He bolted down three bowls of stew and half a loaf of crusty bread before the yawning pit in his gut felt remotely satiated, washed down with a generous mug of milk. Small beer, his mother had said, could wait until he looked less like something the cat dragged in, and more like a healthy hobbit in his prime.

Thorin was snapping a ginger biscuit in half, fixing to dunk it into his second mug of milk, when Dis appeared in the kitchen doorway. His little sister, looking every inch her mother’s daughter, with her trousers swapped for a forest green skirt, and her fists planted on her hips.

“You churlish, mean old bear!”

“Dis,” their mother scolded, though it was quite clear to everyone that there wasn’t any heat in it. Dis paid the toothless warning no mind, her focus on Thorin hawk-like and dangerous, and Iris actually left the kitchen without another word. Abandoning Thorin, leaving him alone with Dis.

“You,” she said, jabbing one finger his way and prowling into the room. “Can’t just go about sticking people with hooks, and _not apologize_ — snarling and growling like a bear with a thorn instead. I know for a fact you weren’t raised by goblins, Thorin Brandybuck. You have manners, and some degree of sense, even if you didn’t use either one today.”

Thorin wanted so badly to argue, but found he could not; thinking back, he couldn’t recall apologizing, not aloud, though he had been so terribly contrite.

“I—” Setting his biscuit back on his plate, Thorin pushed it aside. His mouth tasted sour, a bit metallic. “I’m sorry.”

Dis made the most inelegant sort of snort, and flapped her fingers at him, as though shooing a fly. “I don’t need your apologies. Bilbo’s been out moping around the garden since we’ve been back. He thinks you’re cross with him for getting in your way.”

“Why would he—” Dis was close enough now, and Thorin was still sitting, making it a simple enough matter for her to clap her hand over his mouth, silencing anything he might have asked.

“Go apologize,” she said, leaning in so near, bringing them nose to nose. Thorin nearly had to cross his eyes. “And try to keep your manners, if nothing else.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin was all too aware of the frizzing state of his hair, the mud and dust on his clothes, and the sheen of sweat on his face; he hadn’t been allowed even a moment to clean up when he’d gotten home, beyond giving his hands a scrubbing. It was with that in mind that he paused just inside one of the back doors of the smial, which would lead him out into the garden, and ran both hands back over his skull.

His palm caught on a snarled twig, and he pulled the thorny annoyance free; cursing silently, Thorin yanked the leather tie that held his hair in a tail, and shook it with a harsh ruffle. Combing back the dark locks, he made a sudden strategic decision and stuffed the tie into his pocket. It would be easier to avoid Bilbo’s eyes if the situation warranted it, if he had a curtain of hair to hide behind. And, if Thorin’s ears began to go red for whatever reason, they would be better hidden as well.

The moment he stepped outside, Thorin could hear peals of laughter coming from farther around the smial, over towards the herb garden. Moping, indeed— Bilbo certainly didn’t sound as though he was in poor spirits.

Hissing a short, sharp breath between his teeth, Thorin stomped off in the direction of the merriment. It was there amongst the greenery that he found Bilbo and Frerin, sitting hip to hip on one of the polished wooden benches. All laughter faded like mist in the morning when Thorin came into view, and he was faced with two unpleasant, unamused expressions: Frerin’s expectant, far too knowing head tilt, and Bilbo Baggins, wearing a frown as dark as a thundercloud.

“Afternoon, brother. Your gear’s in the hallway,” Frerin said, as though that mattered even slightly. “Outside your room. And I think Mum is keen to chat with you.”

“I’ve already seen her.” Thorin didn’t allow himself to flinch, or snap at Frerin for being a pest. This certainly didn’t deserve to be easy, considering the mess of the day. “I’d like… Bilbo, may I have a word?”

It almost looked as though Bilbo would refuse him, and Thorin forced his hackles down from rising at the very idea, even as his stomach clenched cold. But then Bilbo nodded, and gave Frerin a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Yes, all right. If you like,” Bilbo said. “Thank you for the company, Frerin.”

Frerin rose to his feet without argument, immediately dropping into a deep, flourishing bow.

“Any time, my good Mister Bilbo.” When Bilbo made a tutting sound at that, murmuring some insistence that _simply Bilbo is all well and good_ , Frerin merely grinned, broad and toothy. “Sorry, Mister Bilbo, but I find myself struck by the queerest impulse to respect my elders. I’m sure it’ll pass. For now though, I’m off.” Frerin straightened up and turned without further discussion, very nearly skipping back towards the house.

“Good luck,” he said under his breath, just as he was passing by Thorin’s elbow, and then Thorin and Bilbo were left alone in the warm, peaceful corner of garden.

For a long, awkward moment, Thorin wasn’t quite certain how to begin. Bilbo was absolutely no help at all, seemingly engrossed in picking at his nails. Neither of them spoke, though Thorin did open his mouth several times, only to close it again before uttering a single peep.

Finally, Bilbo let loose a sigh, and slapped one palm against the bench beside him.

“Do have a seat, please,” he said, shooting Thorin an unreadable sort of look. “You’re apt to make a chap jittery, looming like that.”

Not allowing himself to become too encouraged by the offer, Thorin shuffled forward, but stopped just short of sitting, choosing to stand in front of the bench instead.

It was an indescribable mercy that Bilbo had changed his shirt, replacing cream linen and bloodstains with a clean, snowy white collar.

“I feel I should apologize,” Thorin began, his jaw tight around the words. “It just now came to my attention that I hadn’t already. I am deeply sorry for the accident.”

Bilbo didn’t answer right away, merely peered up at Thorin, with his eyes narrowed and head cocked like a bird. Thorin’s palms prickled from the attention, and his fingers curled tighter at his sides.

“The accident,” Bilbo said eventually. “If you’ll indulge me, Thorin, I’m actually more interested in discussing what happened afterward. When you shouted at me, scorned me, then stormed off in a huff.”

Thorin’s head snapped up, shocked. “I _didn’t_ —”

“You _did_.” Quick as a snake, Bilbo’s arm darted out, and fingers wrapped loosely around Thorin’s wrist. “Sit, for goodness sake. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

Thorin had no idea why he allowed himself to be pulled down, turned about and positioned like a doll when Bilbo’s touch held all the force of a butterfly’s wing. But suddenly there was a bench under his arse and Bilbo Baggins sitting beside him, far too close for comfort, watching him expectantly.

Thorin’s skin was crawling, not with any vexed, panicked feeling, but with heat and awareness. Like standing next to a smouldering hearth, burning even hotter where Bilbo’s hand still rested on his wrist, and Bilbo’s knee was knocking slightly against his own.

“I didn’t shout at you,” Thorin said, quieter now, hardly more than a rumble.

“You did,” Bilbo repeated, and if Thorin hadn’t been watching him out of the corner of his eye, he would have missed the tiny, oddly amused lift of Bilbo’s mouth. A smile, of a kind, or perhaps just the bud of one not yet bloomed. “According to your sister, you get rather tetchy when you’re worried, and quarrelsome when you’re embarrassed. And according to your brother, you’re—” Puffing out his chest, Bilbo’s put on a voice that was thickly Bucklander in cadence, rather than his usual plummy Hobbiton accent. “ _A sour old git with a hard head and a soft heart_.”

It was a fairly good mimic, and unexpected enough to startle a weak laugh out of Thorin, and Bilbo’s smile grew.

“Everything is forgiven,” Bilbo said, those three words striking at Thorin’s chest like a punch. When Bilbo’s free hand extended before him, palm open, Thorin stared at it, aware that he was gawping but not quite able to stop.

“I would like very much for us to be friends, Thorin.”

Never in his wildest dreams had Thorin entertained such a notion. Bilbo Baggins, asking him to bridge the gap of _friendship_. They were entirely unlike each other, as different as dusk and dawn: jovial and cantankerous, gregarious and reserved, perfectly hobbitish and tragically _not_.

Thorin had spent so many summers in Hobbiton, watching Bilbo Baggins swagger his way ‘round town with a pack of admirers and cohorts nipping at his heels and hanging on his every word. Never had Thorin been amongst that gang, nor had Bilbo ever made such an offer before.

An open palm, an open face, and Thorin felt as though the ground was opening up beneath him as well, in a chasm yawning wide and bottomless.

“I— All right.” There was a lump in Thorin’s throat, bigger than a fist and harder than a peach pit. He reached out, sliding his hand into Bilbo’s, very nearly wincing when his calluses rasped against softer skin. Bilbo’s grip didn’t falter, however, tightening firmly around Thorin’s thick fingers.

“Good. Splendid.” This close, the full force of Bilbo’s joyful smile was luminous and nearly painful, as though Thorin had looked too long at the sun.

 

* * *

 

Having friendly relations with Bilbo Baggins, as it turned out, wasn’t nearly as invasive or annoying a prospect as Thorin had secretly feared. Bilbo was much less demanding of his time than his siblings had ever been, never once haranguing or harassing him out of his rooms or his improvised workshop. That wasn’t to say that Bilbo never sought him out— in the days before the other Bagginses arrival in Buckland, Thorin often found himself with company.

Bilbo was not always at his heels— there was still the matter of chaperoning young Drogo, whose fledgling attempts at courting had grown a bit easier with the arrival of Betony and her family at Brandy Hall. Certainly, it would be simpler to get into trouble without a three hour walk to Newbury separating them, but Bilbo did not seem terribly concerned. The sheer number of watchful Brandybuck eyes in the Hall, even with many gone off to Free Fair, was an added security, and neither Drogo nor Betony were especially wild tweens to begin with.

But, often when Thorin was in the storage room, fiddling with some minor flaw in his punt, Bilbo would be seated on a barrel of apples amongst the stores, reading quietly. And when Thorin took the boat to the river, Bilbo might tag along, content to lounge on the shore, napping in the shade of a willow while Thorin fished.

A cloudy morning chopping wood for the kitchen hearth was helped along by Bilbo rolling up his shirt sleeves to help pile the split logs, humming cheery tunes all the while. And invariably, in the quiet after supper, when night was closing in and the summer crickets were chirping their chorus, Thorin could easily find a companion to join him for a contemplative smoke in the garden. Bilbo did not encroach upon him during this evening leisure, not even subtly, but if Thorin made the point to approach the other hobbit, either sitting on a garden bench or leaning against the fence, Bilbo would wear such a pleased grin around the bit of his pipe.

It was bizarrely comfortable, truth be told. It had only been little over a week, and already Thorin had begun to suffer a slight pang whenever he was out and about without his charming shadow.

“That is coming along nicely.” Thorin glanced away from the nearly finished comb in his hands, up to where Bilbo was leaning over his shoulder. “Honestly, all this fine work... extraordinary. I’m impressed.”

“It’s decent enough,” Thorin conceded, still carefully rubbing along the lime wood spine with dried horsetail grass to smooth out any imperfections. The process was much easier now that he’d had the practice, and had learned from all his mistakes, though the teeth would always be an annoyance.

He wasn’t accustomed to doing small, delicate work like this outside the solitude of his bedroom, but after he’d pulled his tools from their drawer, he’d only very briefly considered hunkering down at his desk. No, instead he had gathered his kit and the new, third set of combs he had already begun, and headed out to his workshop, dragging a stool over to sit at a sturdy table. As he’d half-expected, once he settled in with the garden door partially ajar, he was not alone for very long.

“May I?” Bilbo motioned toward the other comb laying on the table before them, which Thorin had carved with narrower teeth than the one in his hand, better for working through the shorter hair of the feet and calves. When Thorin nodded permission, Bilbo plucked it up, running his thumb slowly up the length of smooth wood.

Thorin felt like the worst sort of fool and a lecher besides, when that innocent motion managed to light a fire in his blood. Bilbo’s gentle fingers dragged over the comb, tracing the curve of the spine and even flicking a nail lightly over the teeth, and as Thorin watched, he felt an answering shiver tickle down his back, as though those caresses were upon his own skin instead.

His hands clenched to keep from trembling, and it was pure luck that he didn’t snap his work into useless pieces. This was far from the first time Thorin had _noticed_ Bilbo Baggins, going back even before Thorin had begun to regard the other hobbit with any real measure of fondness, but such distractions were growing worse the longer they spent in each other’s company. It was maddening.

Bilbo was handsome and merry, and to make matters worse, more genuinely pleasant than Thorin had ever expected. Standing this near, he smelled sweetly of freshly mown hay and lavender, layered with pipeweed and the faintest tang of salty sweat beneath.

He was also so far beyond reach, in terms of whatever ridiculously amorous thoughts had stirred in Thorin’s breast, that Bilbo might as well have been the moon.

It wasn’t as though Thorin was still a stripling tween, wild as a young buck gone into autumn rut. He expected he could keep better control over himself than this.

Besides all that, there had been barely a glance of consideration thrown his way when he actually had been a tween. He had very rarely been asked for a second dance at a festival, and never a third, nor had he ever worked up enough nerve to do the asking himself. Beaky Thorin Brandybuck had never been popular choice of chap to receive a flower from an admirer, or a furtive kiss in some shadowed corner of a party tent. Nor had he been the sort of chap to offer a bloom, and certainly not the sort to try and sneak a kiss— he had never found himself struck with sufficient desire to make such a fool of himself.

A youth spent without indiscretions, keeping mostly to himself and not suffering the lack overmuch, and _now_ was the moment his body chose to betray him like this: trying to ruin a young, burgeoning friendship with such an absurd rush of infatuation.

It was not to be borne, and Thorin tamped down all such yearnings with a violent sort of annoyance. This was surprisingly good, and he would not ruin it.

The touch of a hand against his back, sliding up to squeeze the ball of his shoulder, brought Thorin out of his woolgathering and firmly back to the present. Still standing beside him, Bilbo was wearing a beautiful smile, wrinkling his button nose. “You are a hobbit of talents, aren’t you?”

That simple praise certainly wasn’t as flirtatious as Thorin’s mind made it out to be, nor was that smile at all inviting. His heart hammered, battering his ribs, and Thorin swallowed hard.

“Only tinkering—” he began to say, but before he could banish the mortifying, husky rasp his voice had taken on, there was a quick rapping on the door that led out to the garden. It was still cracked open, enough to let in fresh air and a beam of late afternoon sunlight, when Dis’ tawny head poked in around it.

In the blink of an eye, Bilbo hopped up to sit on the edge of the table with one hand hidden behind his back, effectively blocking the combs from view. The move was thoughtful and certainly clever, but with Bilbo perched just _there_ , Thorin could not banish a sudden assault of lewd thoughts from his mind. With them both positioned like this, how damnably easy it would be to wedge himself between the bracket of Bilbo’s knees, or slide the other hobbit over a short distance, settling that pert, plush bottom onto Thorin’s lap. To be granted a taste of that smile, pressing warm against his own thin lips.

Dis, thanks be to every good spirit and lucky star, didn’t seem to notice that anything was out of sorts, squinting into the darker storeroom with the sunny day bright behind her. “There’s a wagon coming down from the bridge— I think it’s the rest of the Bagginses!”

“Goodness!” Somehow, it was strangely touching that Bilbo didn’t simply forget himself and leap from his seat, keeping the gift hidden even as his spine straightened with obvious joy. “Oh my, oh thank you, Dis. We’ll be right along.”

Then Dis was gone with a flick of her skirts, and Bilbo actually gave Thorin a light, playful kick to the thigh, grinning and swinging his legs.

“I do think this visit will do wonders for my mother’s spirits,” he said, dropping off the table. Then, with a careless sort of ease, Bilbo reached out to give Thorin’s chest a pat, just over his heart. “And I know she’ll be so pleased to see you.”

Thorin didn’t argue with that, largely because he worried he couldn’t trust his voice.

He used the excuse of putting his tools and combs away to promptly flee Bilbo’s company, then proceeded to spend a few long, dizzy moments in the privacy of his bedroom, with his back bent and his hands braced on his knees, panting as though he’d run all the way from Bree.

He was a miserable, pathetic excuse for a hobbit, getting this flustered about a few friendly touches. Sucking a deep breath through his nose, Thorin gave the meat of his thigh a cruel pinch through the leg of his trousers, chasing off any lingering ghost of pleasure from Bilbo’s teasing with a bite of pain instead.

“Smarten up,” he snarled, pinching himself once more before standing tall, giving his shirt a sharp tug to straighten it. He could feel sweat popped on his brow and along his top lip, but that could just as easily have been due to the heat of the day. There was no obvious, outward sign that Thorin’s heart was fluttering faster than the wings of a startled finch.

At least, he dearly hoped there wasn’t. Wheedling out of greeting the arriving Bagginses, especially Missus Belladonna, simply couldn’t be done.

Making doubly certain he’d brushed every speck of wood dust and other detritus from his clothes, Thorin straightened his braces, and squared both his shoulders and his jaw. It took only three false starts to get him back out his bedroom door, down the corridor, and into the garden.

The whole of the household, as well as Bilbo and Drogo, were already outside, watching the distant wagon lumbering ever closer down Buckland Road. Thrain had an arm wrapped around his wife’s back, holding her close against his side as they stood just outside the gate, and Thorin could see his mother’s fingers worrying at the fringe of her shawl, twisting and twitching. The family had been to Hobbiton thrice since Mister Baggins died, and after each trip, Iris returned to Buckland with new lines around her eyes, and a hitch in her voice when she spoke of her dear friend’s wan vitality, not yet fully recovered.

The slap of Thorin’s soles against the flagstone path was apparently loud enough to draw attention— it was possible he had made his final few steps out the front door in a rush, trying to outrun his own jangling nerves. Bilbo turned from his craning lean over the fence, watchful but aware there was still some distance to be driven, and his expression was glowing with delight, all bright eyes and pink cheeks.

“I’m sure it’s them,” he said, and stretched out a hand towards Thorin, beckoning him closer. Cutting a quick, oddly self-conscious glance at his family (who were, thankfully, all squinting up towards the wagon), Thorin shuffled over to stand by Bilbo’s elbow.

“Can you make them out from here, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, as his fingers found their way to Thorin’s forearm, which was bared by his rolled sleeve. There was no hesitation or hint of recoil in that companionable touch, despite the thicket of dark hair and tense, corded sinew Bilbo must have felt. “I think… I’m _nearly_ sure it’s them.”

There was a scrambling noise, a few grunts of effort, and when Thorin turned to look back at the smial, Dis had clambered up onto the roof. Drogo was standing below, and it was entirely obvious by the dust being wiped hastily off his palms and his guilty look that he had given her a boost. There was something to be said for the Shire rumour that Brandybucks were terrible influences on respectable folk.

“Dis!” Iris hollered, sharp as a whip crack. “It won’t be the fall that breaks your neck if you take a tumble! I’ll do it myself!”

Thrain, unsurprisingly, was less bothered by the entire affair. “What can you see, blossom?”

Of course, it had been Thrain who’d given all three of his children sparring lessons with farm tools as weapons, taught them to swim and climb, and a hundred other valuable skills that might very well jelly the knees of the average Shire hobbit. Their father was even more enthusiastic and taxing as a teacher than most other Bucklander parents, but Thrain had been active in the militia for nearly fifty years, before and after the Fell Winter, and was deadly serious when it came to matters of defense.

“Goats,” Dis answered, backing up along the higher slope of the roof and rising on her tiptoes for the best view. “A pair, pulling the wagon. The driver, ah, it’s a lady driving, I think. Can’t tell how many heads riding in back.”

“The kettle,” Iris said suddenly, hoisting her skirts and dashing back up the path and into the house. “Oh goodness, the kettle should be on!”

Vanishing inside, it was only an instant before Iris was leaning out the sitting room window, both hands braced on the sill. “And get off the roof, young miss, or you’ll be beating rugs and mucking out the coops until Yule!”

“Be down in half a minute,” Dis called back, frighteningly innocent, while Frerin was busy climbing up as well, just out of sight of the window. It would be much easier from the east side, where the Lonely Hill bled smoothly into the landscape, rather than from the front of the smial, but Thorin’s siblings did not appear to have the patience for the walk around.

“Ho, enough now,” Thrain said, his tone taking on a familiar gravity that never failed to catch his children’s ears. “Mind your mother.”

While Frerin aborted his attempted scaling, and Dis engaged Drogo’s help again in skittering back down without incident, Thorin turned his attention to the wagon. And also to the hobbit with a hand still laid gently (but so very noticeably) upon his arm.

Bilbo didn’t appear to be in any rush to end the contact, and nor did Thorin step away as they stood and watched the Bagginses draw ever incrementally closer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belladonna Baggins! Belladonna!
> 
> 8D

It was indeed their expected guests who rolled up upon the Lonely Hill a short while later: Drogo’s mother, Missus Ruby Baggins, was the driver, while all the others were sitting in the back. Mister Fosco Baggins had kept his broad feet propped up for the ride, likely something to do with the joint swelling Bilbo had mentioned, and made no move to get out of the wagon. Nor, indeed, did any of the other Bagginses, besides Missus Belladonna.

“Allow me, Bella,” Thrain said, as he came around to offer her a supportive hand. Bilbo gave Thorin’s arm a brief squeeze before darting off as well, hot on Thrain’s heels.

Thorin, after a moment’s indecision, followed.

“Watch your hands, you old rascal,” Belladonna said, laughing as she permitted Thrain to catch her by the waist and lift her down. Bilbo had both arms held up, as though prepared for a fumble, but Thrain had always been burly for a hobbit, strong and thickly built, though not oddly proportioned like his eldest son. And even if Thrain had lost some of his youthful, strapping muscle as the years had passed, Belladonna did not look as though she was a hefty load to carry.

It had been eight years since Thorin had seen Missus Baggins, but surely that was not long enough to adequately explain the silver shooting heavily through the dark curls of her hair, which were not worn loose and free as he remembered, but rather pinned back in a large, spiraling bun tucked under a straw sun hat. More alarmingly, Missus Baggins appeared to be merely a shade of the hobbit she once was: her cheeks, formerly full and pink, had thinned, carving her face in harsher lines; pale blue eyes were rimmed in faint, bruised shadows and worried creases; and beneath the drape of her shawl, Thorin could see how her bark brown dress hung loose from her frame.

His own eyes prickled, not with any imminent threat of tears, but with sorrow nonetheless.

She still stood straight and proud when her feet touched down upon the dusty road, without a hint of faltering, and thanked Thrain with a pat on the arm before turning to her son. Thrain, for his part, walked off towards the wagon’s front again to speak more easily with their other guests.

“My dear boy.” Belladonna’s arms rose, and her long, spindled fingers pressed on either side of Bilbo’s face. She leaned close, and Thorin was struck by a pang of memory when mother and son rubbed their noses together beneath the shade of her hat brim, in a peculiar, affectionate greeting. When they parted, both twitched their noses not unlike rabbits— a common habit of Bilbo’s, even without the fond contact before.

Thorin lingered, standing stiff and uncomfortable beside the wagon, pointedly ignoring the curious stares of Drogo’s younger brother. There was absolutely no sensible reason why he’d followed Bilbo, why he hadn’t simply waited by the fence, as he _should_ have done—

“Oh bless my soles— Thorin?” He froze, tense as a startled deer, as Belladonna closed the distance between them. “Look at you, my goodness. Goodness gracious.”

Then there were hands gripping Thorin’s elbows, small but holding tight, and wetness making Belladonna’s eyes glitter like dew drops.

“Oh, look at you,” she said again, and pulled him into a shockingly familiar embrace, hugging her thin arms around his ribs, letting her hat tumble backward to be caught by Bilbo.

Thorin could have so easily pushed her away, or even retreated back when she tried to tug him forward; he was larger, certainly stronger. But he did none of those things, instead very carefully bringing his own arms up, resting his hands nervously on her back. She felt fragile under his broad palms, as though her very bones were as light as a bird’s, but the embrace was steady, motherly, profoundly comforting.

“Grown into your shoulders,” she whispered, with her cheek pressed firm against his chest, and Thorin felt his ears grow warm. The feeling simply worsened when she leaned back, peering up at him with the cheekiest curl of a grin splitting her face. “Your father didn’t cut half so impressive a figure at your age, and he had the entire West Farthing and most of the South all aflutter, let me tell you. What a striking young chap you’ve become, Thorin Brandybuck.”

“ _Mother_!” Bilbo flapped his hands and the hat, but his scolding tone was properly ruined by poorly smothered giggles. Belladonna didn’t even bother to glance away from Thorin’s face, studying him now, while her palms scuffed warmly up and down his ribs.

“Leave me be, Bilbo; I know full well I’m babbling. I’ve dearly missed this lad.”

Whatever faculties that had once existed between Thorin’s ears had vanished, as ephemeral as wisps of smoke and dandelion fluff caught on the breeze. The breeze, in this case, being Belladonna’s genuine, startling enthusiasm to greet him. He was powerless to string a single thought together, or make any sort of sense of this entire meeting.

 _A striking young chap_. He could tell it had been meant as a compliment, a carefully worded kindness, even if it was untrue.

“Good afternoon, Missus Baggins,” he said, with manners drilled so deeply that they were imprinted on his bones. She may have shocked him, hugged him, but courtesies couldn’t be utterly trampled. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Dear boy.” Taking a breath, Belladonna took her hands from his sides, but reached for his elbow again, this time looping her hand into the crook. She did the same with Bilbo, standing with one chap on either side. “Both of my dear boys. Escort a lady out of the sun, would you please?”

 

* * *

 

Iris Brandybuck seemed to have no time to spare on taking insult when Ruby and Fosco Baggins politely refused refreshments and a visit in favour of continuing over to Brandy Hall straight away. Mister Baggins joints were flaring again, apparently, and he wanted little more than a hot soak for his feet. And so Drogo and his family made a hasty exit, promising to come round for tea the next day, once they’d settled into their rooms in the Hall.

“I told Fosco,” Belladonna was saying, seated in Thorin’s usual chair at the dining table, at Iris’ right hand. “I’d make him a nettle tea, set all those aches to right, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. Hard-headed Bagginses.”

The shuffling of place settings around the table had ended up putting Thorin between his father, who was seated at the head of the table, and Bilbo. The meal laid before them was a bountiful dinner combined with a light afternoon tea, since the proper time for the latter had passed by largely unmarked by the household eagerly watching their guests’ approach. Hot roast chicken and vegetables, cold ham, fried fish, bread, pickles, salad, eggs, cheeses, and pork pies, as well as several different cakes that Thorin had seen cooling on the kitchen sill over the past days— it was nearly a feast, though an unplanned one.

Belladonna had quipped about there being no need to outdo Master Broadbelt’s famous table on her account, but had filled her plate without hesitation. Upon seeing his mother tuck into her ample meal, Bilbo had let out the quietest gasp, nearly inaudible. Thorin was the only one to notice, and said nothing, except to offer Bilbo a serving dish of asparagus, slick with butter and flecked with rosemary.

If he also offered Bilbo a tiny, understanding half-smile when he did so, Thorin was merely minding his manners.

“ _Hard-headed Bagginses_ ,” Bilbo repeated, pitched with mock outraged as he widened his eyes at his mother. “Have you come all this way, Mother, to slander my good name?”

Belladonna hummed, chewing and swallowing a mouthful, then daubing her lips with a napkin before answering.

“Of course, Bilbo. But mostly, I came for the pork pies and delightful company.” Reaching out, she caught Iris’ hand on the tablecloth, giving it a squeeze, and Thorin’s mother laughed like a bell chiming.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, with the sun dipping to the edge of the horizon and the western sky painted deep cherry red, Thorin was perched on one of the sturdier limbs of the gigantic old ash tree that stood proud and broad some distance behind the Lonely Hill. There were roots at the base thicker than Thorin’s waist, digging deep into the rich peaty soil, and sprawling limbs stretching high towards the sun.

This tree had served as a ravens’ roost for many long years before Thror Brandybuck had first broken ground for his bitterly built smial. Before that, and certainly since, it had also been a popular tree for brave tweens to try and scale. There were dozens of scars on its rough, slate grey bark, gouged by pocketknives to keep a somewhat gruesome record of how high young hobbits had climbed.

Thorin was sitting beside a number of gouges, though not the most popular limb for marking— he wasn’t quite high enough to find those truly reckless marks, nor low enough for the timid scratches.

The Brandywine stretched dark and gleaming some distance off, reflecting the setting sun like a river of real burgundy wine, streaked with glints of gold. He sat, swinging his feet in the empty air, and tried very hard to clear his muzzy head. They had been too long with guests in the house already, and now Missus Belladonna, with her thin face and tired eyes, but her hands upon Thorin’s sides still strong and unflinching, the way she looked at him…

It was a strange situation. He needed, desperately, to gather his thoughts back into order.

He hadn’t gotten far at all in that endeavour, when the crackle of snapping twigs and muttering complaining alerted him that he was no longer alone with his own mind.

“Dratted… _confound_ it— Thorin?” Bilbo Baggins stood amongst the tree roots, gawking up towards the branches, and Thorin knew it was little use trying to blend into the foliage. He had been spotted.

“Good evening,” he called down, trying to imbue his words with the least amount of welcome possible, without actually being impolite.

Bilbo watched him for a moment more, before clearing his throat sharply, decisively, and dusting his hands off on the legs of his trousers. Before Thorin could truly fathom what was happening, Bilbo was taking a brief run off for momentum’s sake, and grappling one of the lowest branches. He hoisted himself, grunting, but was surprisingly more agile than Thorin had expected, moving swiftly to climb to the next branch up.

Finally, after not long at all, Thorin found himself rather relieved that he’d chosen such a sturdy perch, as Bilbo clambered up to claim a seat beside him.

“I’ve not climbed a tree—” Panting slightly, Bilbo steadied himself with cautious movements; he didn’t look terribly nervous despite the distant ground below, though he was taking care. “In ten years. Or longer, probably.”

Pausing, Bilbo finally looked out towards the water, and the stunning view afforded by the height of their perch. Buckland fields rolled pleasantly with the smooth grass and the scant crops of early summer, some laid flat and black in tracts of good tilled loam, hemmed by copses of trees and weathered fences. Beyond the river, the Marish’s boggy farmlands stretched westward, toward Hobbiton and beyond.

Thorin knew stories of mountains much farther still, the Blue Mountains to the west, and the Misty Mountains farther east, but he had never seen such a thing with his own eyes. Except once, as the vaguest shadows of small, distant shapes peeking up from an especially clear blue horizon, during a Free Fair on the White Downs when he was only fourteen years old.

Bilbo was wearing a look of such wide-eyed wonder now, and Thorin found himself watching the other hobbit rather than the view. It wasn’t the marvel of mountains, but it was still a grand sight.

“Just look what I’ve been missing,” Bilbo murmured, then seemed to remember himself and his company, shaking his head and cutting a glance to Thorin. “If you’d rather not share your roost, I can go. I didn’t precisely mean to intrude.”

“You climbed a tree to follow me.” Thorin motioned towards the ground. “Without so much as a _by your leave_ , and now you’re concerned about intrusiveness.”

“Oh, hush.”

Bilbo never did explain why he’d come looking for Thorin, nor indeed why he’d scrambled up beside him like a squirrel. He simply sat, not pushing for further conversation, apparently content with the quiet. And Thorin, for whatever reason, didn’t bother asking him to leave.

Bilbo’s elbow was a point of warmth, resting against Thorin’s arm, as they watched the sun gradually sink behind the distant hills.

 

* * *

 

The Lithedays approached quickly after that, the days flying by in a blur of preparations. When Thorin wasn’t being hustled about, told to _carry this_ , _hang that_ , or _move those_ , he was taking time on his own, to finish up the particulars of his birthday gifts, or sometimes to catch a quiet moment alone. There were folk buzzing about like bees, seemingly busy every moment, but with Drogo and his siblings pitching in alongside Frerin and Dis, Thorin felt somewhat less guilty for vanishing now and then.

If Thorin had imagined the strange, blossoming friendship between Bilbo and himself might have withered once Belladonna arrived, he would have certainly been mistaken. Bilbo did not cling to his mother’s skirts, nor did Belladonna clamour for her son’s attention.

Belladonna seemed perfectly delighted to spend her time with Thorin’s parents, swapping tales of youthful folly and years past. The trio would often take to roaring with laughter at some remembered jape or adventure, and Thorin once walked in upon his father standing on the kitchen table, acting out some foolishness while both ladies were doubled over in their chairs, overcome with aching sides and mirthful tears. Occasionally, they would grow still and contemplative, especially in the evenings when the wine and brandy were flowing freely, but that melancholy was far less common than the bursts of joy.

Bilbo’s habits hardly changed at all, still making himself comfortable at the edges of Thorin’s notice, not pressing but present.

“It’s still crooked, Thorin.” Though at times, Bilbo made his presence more boldly known. “Can you move it to the left?”

Teetering for balance with his feet on the seat of a wooden stool, Thorin stretched a bit more, sliding the string of colourful flags he was hanging farther along the tree branch. A grassy meadow beside the Lonely Hill had been transformed, with lanterns, decorations, and a vaulting canvas tent in case of rain. It was not nearly as sprawling a setup as was doubtlessly blanketed across the White Downs, nor even as grand as some of the dances at the base of the Party Tree that Thorin recalled from visits to Hobbiton— simply a small, relatively intimate celebration, with a standing invitation to any and all Bucklanders who’d not made the trip west to Free Fair.

“Ah, there, that’s perfect.” A soft hand, cooler than the baking sun, curled around the back of Thorin’s calf. The touch was so unexpected, sending a bolt of heat directly up the length of Thorin’s extended leg, that he very nearly tumbled arse over tip, catching himself against the alder trunk in a clumsy scramble of limbs.

“Sorry!” Bilbo was laughing, breathless and surprised, and Thorin clung tighter to the tree. There was another hand holding him now, this one gripping his hip; it was meant to help, to steady him. Thorin had never felt more profoundly unsteady in his entire life.

“I’m fine,” he said, the tips of his fingers digging into bark. Beneath his feet, the stool wobbled, but Thorin pushed away from the tree without concern for balance. Bilbo’s touch retreated, though his arms stayed outstretched, cautious.

Thorin swallowed, thick and dry. It was nothing but the heat of the day. He was _fine_.

“Oi, you two!” Frerin, who was carrying a long table across the grass with the help of Dudo Baggins, jerked his chin and waggled his eyebrows in their direction. “There’re three more tables to come over from Brandy Hall, whenever you’re through making calf eyes at each other!”

The rush of embarrassment was like being doused in ice water, followed by fire licking up Thorin’s neck and to the tips of his ears. _Calf eyes_ — had he really been so obvious? And was Frerin really so childish, so cruel to call him out on his lapse in judgement like this, out in the open? In front of _Bilbo_?

“Green eyes would suit you better,” Bilbo called back, and the amusement formerly brightening his tone had hardened. “With an attitude like that, Frerin Brandybuck.”

“Just a jape.” Setting the table down, Frerin held up both hands in surrender. “Perhaps a poor one. Beg pardon Bilbo, brother.”

“What a little mischief maker,” Bilbo murmured, almost too low for Thorin to hear, then offered a hand, palm up and open. “Shall we fetch a table?”

It was good, Thorin supposed, that Bilbo didn’t kick up a fuss about the very idea that there might indeed be calf eyes. Perhaps Bilbo thought Frerin was simply joking without any roots in fact, or the notion that Thorin was harbouring some ill-fated attraction might be of little consequence to him— surely Bilbo Baggins was accustomed to admirers, with his looks and charm as they were.

Thorin’s gut churned with the oddest mixture of desperate relief, and gnawing disappointment. He certainly hadn’t wanted to jeopardize whatever tentative accord had sprung up between them, like delicate green shoots first breaking ground. But, at the same time, Bilbo’s lack of reaction stung with unintended scorn.

Hopping down from the stool without accepting help, Thorin kept his face carefully neutral. “Let’s go, then.”


	7. Chapter 7

Even amidst the hustle and bustle of preparations, Thorin’s parents still went to the trouble of organizing a small party in honour of his birthday. The field just beside their smial had been transformed in anticipation for the festivities that would begin near sunset— decorations were hung, tent pitched, and long tables were laid out across the grass— but when the time for afternoon tea arrived, all thoughts of their Litheday celebrations were set aside for a short while.

It was Thrain who found him, some time after Thorin had made excuses of needing to see to a private matter (in truth, he’d simply felt the need to give Bilbo the slip). Thorin was sitting cross legged on his bed, thoughtfully considering the contents of a small cloth pouch, when there came a drumming knock on his bedroom door.

“Thorin,” his father said, muffled but still resonate through the barrier. Pulling the ties of the pouch tightly closed, Thorin stood, crossing the room quickly to let his father inside.

“Your mother’s made pie.” Thrain wasted precisely no time stating his purpose, even before the door swung open completely. “Come, byrding. And put a weskit on.”

“Aye, I’ll be along.” Ducking a polite nod, Thorin turned back into his room, slipping the pouch into his pocket. He hadn’t gotten more than a single step before a grip on the back of his braces brought him to a halt.

“Hang on a tick, my lad.” Sweeping in from the hallway, Thrain pushed the door partway shut, providing a vague sort of privacy. He lowered his voice as well, to a deep rumble. “Everything well?”

It would never cease to be strange, having to look down to meet his father’s eye; Thrain was such a large, imposing presence, even years after Thorin had inched beyond him in height.

“Well enough,” Thorin answered, adjusting his braces where Thrain had tugged them crooked. There was a waistcoat waiting on the door of his wardrobe, a nicer one in sandy brown, finely woven wool, with silk back of stormy, greyish blue and polished brass buttons, and Thorin plucked it off its hanger. It was natty enough to please his mother, especially with the few curlicues and blossoms of blue embroidery she had done at each shoulder, and fit well enough that Thorin wouldn’t be squirming all through tea.

Or, at least, he wouldn’t be squirming about any pinching seams. Anything else remained to be seen.

“Thorin.” Shrugging the waistcoat over his arms, Thorin took a breath and glanced over at his father. There was a flinty seriousness in Thrain’s single eye, and a twist to his mouth that wasn’t quite a frown. Thorin wasn’t entirely certain how to interpret the look, but he did understand that it required his full attention.

“You seem it,” Thrain said, quietly, then cleared his throat. “You seem well. Happier.”

Thorin was glad he’d stopped dressing long enough to listen attentively; he was fairly certain he’d have snapped off a button otherwise. He seemed _happier_? Surely, he hadn’t been making such a fool of himself that his _father_ —

“You could count a worse hobbit as a friend than Bilbo Baggins, I’d say,” Thrain continued; blessedly, there was no dreadful extra emphasis placed on _friend_. “And he could certainly ask for no better friend than he’s found in you, my good lad. I’m, ah.”

Rocking on his heels, Thrain rested a hand on his own stocky belly, which was still firm as a tree trunk even now, well into his seventies.

“Old Bungo and I raised fine babes to finer hobbits,” Thrain said, with only a shade of his usual bluster, clearly put on. “Not sure how we managed it so well, pair of daft beggars we were. Mostly your mothers’ doing, and a jigger of good luck.”

“Papa.” Not bothering to hide the widening of his eyes or the lift of his brows, Thorin stared at his father. “Have you been nipping into your homebrew already?”

“Have I—” Thrain fluffed up like a grouse, straightening his back and poking out his barrel chest. “Well, _yes_ , just a sniff. Had to make certain it was suitable for company, before half of Buckland turns up on the front step— Oh, never mind it. Get dressed, you cheeky wee sapling, or your mother will be in here next, dragging you out by the ear.”

It was, so far, much less dramatic than the year before, when Thorin had come of age— Thrain had been more taciturn than rambling then, sombre and grave faced, though he had nearly hugged the stuffing out of Thorin more than once that day. And Iris had been red-eyed from dawn to past dusk, hiccoughing dry little sobs around a luminous grin, and reaching up to touch Thorin’s face at every opportunity. Thorin had borne the strain of that day with carefully buttressed fortitude: he was his parents’ firstborn, after all. Their first babe grown. Of course they were sentimental about the entire thing.

Compared to all that, Thrain’s slightly tipsy woolgathering wasn’t so strange.

After his father left, with a grumble and a quick squeeze of Thorin’s shoulder, Thorin finished buttoning his waistcoat, smoothing the soft cloth flat over his chest. It helped, oddly enough, to think of the Rangers that were such rare and intimidating visitors to Buckland, and the thick leather jerkins they wore beneath their green cloaks. A waistcoat sewn by his own mother’s hands was hardly any sort of armour, but Thorin still girded himself behind it. Neatening his hair with a fresh tie at his nape, he knelt to fetch the box of gifts from its drawer, and let his fingertips rest lightly on the lid for a few heartbeats before he stood again.

There was a spread of sweet and savory pastries, fruit, cheeses, and nuts laid out over the dining room table, and the household plus a pair of Bagginses sitting ‘round when Thorin stepped over the threshold, with the box tucked under his arm. There was an empty chair, next to a grinning Bilbo, that had been wrapped in a riot of ribbons around the backrest, frothing with multicoloured bows.

“There’s the jolly good fellow!” Frerin whooped, sitting twisted in his own seat. “Looking well turned out, byrding. Plant yourself, would you, so we can dig into the pie.”

“Bottomless pit,” Dis muttered, not nearly under her breath, then beamed at Thorin with her bright eyes sparkling. “Happy birthday, brother!”

A chorus of more _Happy Birthday_ s rounded the table, and Thorin bowed graciously, even as sweat began to itch in the small of his back. It was impossible to avoid being the centre of attention at one’s own birthday party, at least at first, and he truly did appreciate the sentiment.

“Thank you.” Padding farther inside, he bent low to press a kiss against his mother’s cheek, and gave his father’s proffered hand a firm shake as he passed. When he sat, finally, it was all he could do to keep from sighing with relief. He hadn’t tripped over the rug, or his own feet. And now, sitting, it felt slightly less as though he was a leggy old mule on display at auction.

Both Dis and Frerin eyed the wooden box with curiosity when Thorin set it upon the tablecloth, and Iris clicked her tongue sharply.

“We’ll be cutting the pie before there’s any fuss,” she said, levelling a quelling look at her younger children. “Unless Thorin wants it done differently.”

“They’re nothing exciting,” Thorin said with a small shrug, one hand still flat on the box, only to nearly jump out of his skin at the gentle touch of Bilbo’s fingers against his wrist, not gripping, but simply resting there.

“They’re quite fine indeed,” Bilbo countered, while Frerin let out a squawk, shrill as a hen.

“Bilbo knows what the gifts are? You never said!”

With a smile too keen to be entirely sweet, Bilbo mirrored the shrug Thorin had offered only a moment before. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

There was only minimal, friendly squabbling to be had after that, as the thick blackberry pie that dominated the centre of the table was divvied up, topped with ample mountains of fluffy whipped cream. Lemon curd made rounds as well, a much rarer treat than the pie, and Thorin was rendered entirely speechless when Missus Belladonna was given credit for it.

“I remembered you used to love my lemon tarts, when you were just a wee faunt,” she said from across the table, scooping up a delicate forkful of her pie. “Gobble up a half dozen before they were even set. I hoped you’d still enjoy a taste.”

“It’s wonderful,” Thorin managed, with a voice much hoarser than he intended, then shoved a bite of pie and curd into his mouth before he could blurt anything embarrassing. The curd was smooth as silk on his tongue, rich against the tartness of blackberries so early in their season and the buttery flake of the crust. Then, remembering himself amid the rush of nostalgia, he swallowed and added: “Thank you very much, Missus Baggins.”

Belladonna winked at him, with the same long dimple in her cheek as sometimes bracketed Bilbo’s wider smiles. “You are entirely welcome, my dear.”

 

* * *

 

Forks were still clinking against plates, and other tidbits from the table were being nibbled, when Thorin polished off the last bite of his decadent slice, immediately yearning for more. Instead, he pushed his plate aside and tapped his fingers against the side of the wooden box, before dragging it closer and popping open the lid.

He was not the sort to stand on ceremony, or pass out favours with any sort of sensational flourishes. With as little fuss as possible, Thorin reached into the box and passed out the baubles he had made, each wrapped in a square of plain, dyed cotton he had borrowed from his mother’s sewing room, and tied with simple cords.

“I’d wondered where all your ribbons had gone, Mother,” he said, motioning behind him to the mass of bows. “But I think I may have sussed it.”

“It was your sister’s idea,” Iris said, warm with laughter. “Though she also thought a few bows in the hair of the byrding wouldn’t go amiss.”

“It’s not too late, before the dance,” Dis added. “We could still give you some pretty braids— oh, or a crown, all ribbons and flowers!”

Before Thorin could deny that would _ever_ happen, thank you, Frerin was cackling.

“Oh, these are sterling! Look at this!” One of the lures waggled between Frerin’s finger and thumb, glossy with its fresh green and yellow paint and sharp iron hook. “New floats as well— you’ve got to tell me where you got these, brother.”

“I made them.” The praise sounded earnest, even eager, and Thorin rubbed at the lobe of his ear before sweeping his hand out to indicate the gifts. “I made all of them.”

Then, with a jolt, he remembered something else, pulling the cloth pouch from his pocket and passing it to a peaceful, patient Bilbo.

“This one too,” he said, pointedly ignoring any ridiculous churning in his belly when Bilbo took the pouch, his cheerful face split with pleasure.

“Well now,” Thrain was saying, thankfully pulling Thorin’s attention away from the rather alluring curve of Bilbo’s smile. Hefting the paperweight in his palm, Thrain inspected it in the afternoon sunlight beaming golden through the open dinning room window. “Isn’t this a pretty thing. The finish on it… smooth as glass. Excellent work, my lad. Truly fine.”

“Oh, Thorin.” Iris was holding the wider comb of her set, her finger sliding above the line of the teeth, as though afraid to touch. Beside her, Belladonna had both her combs laid out upon their wrapping, stroking one along the spine. Dis, seated on Bilbo’s other side, had no such compunctions, and was already brushing short, testing strokes through the ends of her tawny curls.

“They’re strong enough for using, not just looking at,” Thorin assured them, flinching slightly as he was pinned by two sets of eyes, one greenish hazel and one pale blue. Both his mother and Missus Belladonna pushed out their chairs at nearly the same time, and before he truly understood the situation he’d created, Thorin found himself hemmed in on either side by the bright folds of summery skirts.

“They’re lovely; they’re just beautiful, my clever darling,” his mother said, while on his left, Missus Belladonna was murmuring her own watery thanks. Too quick for him to duck, even if he’d wished to, Thorin was snagged in a loose, shared embrace, and a pair of soft kisses were planted on his cheeks, one from each lady.

If he’d set his hair on fire, Thorin doubted his ears and neck would have felt more scorched than they did at that moment, flaming hot with the force of his flush.

Mercifully, they retreated almost as swiftly as they’d swooped in, but there was no chance for Thorin to catch his breath properly before he noticed Bilbo had emptied the pouch into his small, soft palm.

Five pale, lime wood buttons— they had been both a lark and a challenge, a small project for dabbling, and to begin practicing the carving of more intricate designs. Each button had a solid face, with a hole worked just through the back for sewing on, and with the front carved into the simple shape of an acorn, dimpled at the cap.

Thorin never had any intention of giving the buttons away when he began them; they’d been something for himself, for one of his coats or weskits if ever managed to have a full set turn out decently. But then Bilbo Baggins had come to Buckland, and as the days had turned to weeks, and Lithedays had loomed ever closer, Thorin still had no gift for him. The buttons had been a last minute, desperate sort of epiphany, dug out from amongst his tools and polished to gleaming.

Acorns, for Oakenshield, the only nickname Thorin had accepted in his life with nothing but good grace. Even _sapling_ , as his father called him now and then, could sting when Thorin’s mood was sour. Actual oak wood had been too hard to carve, he had discovered, dulling his tools and nearly driving him mad, but the lime had taken the design very well, after a number of botched attempts.

Acorns for Oakenshield, as Bungo Baggins had named him, and now acorns for Bilbo Baggins.

“Oh my word,” Bilbo said, carefully flipping one button over on its back with the tip of one finger. “Thorin, these are…”

Bilbo’s hand closed into a fist, hiding the buttons from view, and Thorin’s stomach plummeted with all the speed of a stone dropped down a well. It had been a foolish fancy, _wooden buttons_ of all things when Bilbo was so dapper, with his fine tailoring and polished brass.

“These are perfect,” Bilbo continued, pressing his closed fist against his own chest, and finally turning to gaze up at Thorin. There were twin spots of pink on the apples of Bilbo’s cheeks, faint and fair; Thorin’s heart was in his mouth. “But you sneaky thing, I had no idea. When did you even…oh my word. My goodness, Thorin. Thank you.”

“My grown boy,” Iris blurted, pressing her fingers against her lips, then lifting them off again. “Thrain, dearest, our boy.”

“No, Iris, now none of that—” Thrain laid his palms on the tabletop, looking stern, but as always, there was no stopping Iris Brandybuck once her soft heart cracked wide and spilled over. “Iris, love— confound it.”

There were already tears, amid trilling giggles and hiccoughing. And Missus Belladonna was no help at all, clinging to Iris’ arm as they both began burbling about their _sweet little sprouts, all grown_. Somehow, it was worse than the year before, and Thorin strongly considered taking a dive for the open window.

“Best make a break for it lads,” Thrain murmured, from the corner of his mouth, as though he’d been reading the thoughts from Thorin’s mind. “They, uh, they might’ve had a few drams of the homebrew— stirs up the humours.”

Thorin did not need to be told twice; the pie had been delicious, the lemon curd better than he could have hoped, and the reactions to his gifts had filled him with pride, but there had also been far too much emotion flung his way. His skin felt too tight over his bones, his mind was racing, and fleeing the scene did not seem especially cowardly.

He was up and out of the dinning room before his mother could catch hold of him, with Bilbo on his heels, and Frerin and Dis only an instant behind. They didn’t dare stop in the hallway, keeping their momentum driving them onward, until the front door was flung open and all four of them spilled into the fresh afternoon air.

“That was quite the show,” Frerin said, re-wrapping and pocketing his gift with what looked like great care, even more than the sharp hooks would have warranted. “Well done, Thorin. You think we’ve time for a trip to the river before the carousing starts properly? I want to try my lures.”

“Not a chance, brother.” Dis pointed towards the decorated field, and the few keen hobbits already beginning to trickle over from across the village, carrying platters of food, kegs, and a few musical instruments. “We’re lucky they’ve not been here since luncheon— hard to keep a Brandybuck from a party, even this sort who’ve not gone off to the Downs.”

“Shouldn’t be _too_ very many showing up,” Frerin said, accepting the lack of time to fish with a careless shrug and a toothy grin as he trotted down to lean against the fence. “Half of Buck Hill must have emptied for Fair. Oi, hang on tick: is that Amaranth, coming in the yellow dress? Thought for sure she’d be gone west. Now she is a pretty, fine-footed lass, make no mistake.”

“ _Cousin_ Amaranth,” Dis reminded him, following down the garden path.

“Third cousin,” Frerin countered, rubbing at his smooth chin. “But I’m thinking about Drogo, anyway. The bloom’s off the rose already, poor sod. Told me he’s not getting on with Betony as well as he’d hoped…”

Leaving his siblings to watch and jaw about the neighbours slowly flood into their party field, Thorin became all too aware of Bilbo lingering beside him, with his pouch of new buttons clutched in his hand.

“I want to thank you again,” Bilbo said, quiet and warm, but Thorin shook his head.

“Please, don’t.” When Bilbo didn’t immediately seem to take offense, as many other hobbits might have done, Thorin snatched up the opportunity to attempt some sort of explanation. “I don’t mean— I am pleased you like them. Just, after all that...”

Cursing himself and every fumbling word that tripped over his tongue, Thorin waved his hand back towards the smial, hoping that vague gesture might convey something lost amid the nonsense spilling from his lips. Miraculously, the shadow of confusion flitted free from Bilbo’s expression almost immediately.

“You know, Thorin,” he said, cocking his head slightly. “I do believe there’s plenty of time for a walk before the party begins in earnest. Some quiet reflection, perhaps a few nice puffs of a pipe to round off that delicious tea. These two and I—” Bilbo tipped his thumb, indicating Frerin and Dis. “Can certainly see to any thorns that crop up in the meantime.”

The immediate urge to rile at the barest _hint_ of coddling was little more than a fizzling wick in a gutted candle: weak and failing when compared to Thorin’s deep, scrabbling need for a moment alone. On another day, his pride might have demanded he scoff and bear up, but today…

Today he merely nodded, sharp and short, then turned on his heel and tromped off through the back garden. He wouldn’t go far— he didn’t dare, with the festivities approaching at such a pace— but the soft thud of his workshop door closing behind him was the most blessed, soothing sound. A moment or two in the cool, dim storeroom, with the noise of the world muffled and far away.  Just a moment or two to untangle the knot in his chest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's have a hobbity party, shall we?

The lanterns were lit, the tables spread with potluck food and drink, and a handful of Bucklanders were fiddling and fluting lively reels. As the sun began to set, bathing their meadow in golden light and a fresh evening breeze from the Brandywine, the party was already off to a rousing swing.

A few relations who remembered, or cared to mention it, wished Thorin many happy returns with bright smiles or hearty pats on the back, but there was no great show made of it. It was bearable, especially after nursing a mug of malty ale down to the dregs.

There were, perhaps, four or five dozen hobbits mingling ‘round the field, with more wandering in as the evening came on; everyone was chatting and laughing, with a wheeling group of dancers in the centre of it all. Wagons had come all the way up from Haysend, and a number of booted, bearded farmers had crossed over from the Marish— for what Thorin had been told would be a low-key bit of merrymaking, it seemed as though half of Buckland, and a good portion of the East Farthing had decided to drop in.

It was hard to keep a hobbit from a party, Brandybuck or not. Thorin had a strange, sinking feeling that this sort of eastern answer to the far flung festivities of Free Fair might have just become tradition before his very eyes. Not as a substitute, but at least as a balm for those not trekking west.

Standing off to the side of the revelry, keeping well away from any chance of being pulled into the dancing, Thorin couldn’t quite keep his eyes from straying to thick, toffee brown curls, glinting gilded beneath the strings of coloured lanterns. Bilbo was quite a sight, jigging between twirling couples, occasionally caught up in a twirl of his own with some lass or other, even a spry gammer or two. His face was flushed, his grin was wide, and his laugh was sweeter and more tuneful than any songs the band had played yet.

He was utterly beautiful to watch, and he wouldn’t stop catching Thorin’s gaze, bestowing a wink or a widening smile each time he spun past.

Thorin’s mouth was parched, and he licked his dry lips, forcing his attention away from the dancing for at least a moment or two. He was considering whether another ale was really the wisest choice in his current humour, when a sudden sharp prodding to his right side made him shout, turning to face his attacker with a furious scowl.

There was no one there, behind him, but in his distraction, his mug was snatched from his fingers. The pesky robber struck from the left, of course.

“Oh, bother it!” Dis shook the empty mug, wearing a narrow, annoying look beneath the ribbons in her hair. “What good is this, brother?”

“It was plenty good, sneak thief, as I was drinking it.” Determined not to rub at the twinge in his ribs, where Dis’ bony fingertips had left their mark, Thorin made a sweep to grab the mug back. Dis, the little ferret, jerked it out of his reach, bouncing on the balls of her feet and flicking her bright blue skirts. “Give it here, Dis, or I’ll take it. And tickle you ‘til you squeal, besides.”

“But I’m _thirsty_.” There was more than a hint of playful whinging drawing out her vowels. “Aren’t chaps meant to fetch drinks for ladies? Get us an ale, Thorin? Or some nice apple wine— Please?”

Thorin made absolutely no attempt to stifle the great, dramatic roll of his eyes. “Chaps fetch drinks for ladies who aren’t prodding wee pests, maybe. But darling little sisters always fetch drinks for their byrding brothers— some of that dwarvish ginger beer the Grubbs brought over from Stock would be grand. It’ll sit better in your belly than apple wine, if you’re set to keep dancing and dallying with Vilithorn Took all evening.”

Indeed, the young Took lad (just Vili to his friends, among which Thorin had never attempted to count himself) was lurking nervously almost precisely where Dis had left him, slightly too far into the shadows beside the lofty party tent to be completely proper.

“Come to think of it—” Reaching out, first with his right hand, then his left when Dis feinted away, Thorin managed to snare one of her mussed hair ribbons, tugging the loosened bow ever so gently. “Why not ask good Master Vilithorn to fetch your ale, eh? Instead of tormenting your poor elder brother.”

“You’re a beast,” Dis said, swatting his fingers away. “Join the party, byrding, or folk might mistake you for furniture. One dance won’t kill you.” With a meaningful but indecipherable stare and jerk of her head towards the music, Dis tugged his wrist sharply before darting off, back into the crowd. She also kept his mug.

Left with nothing to do with his hands, no empty mug to roll between his palms, Thorin crossed his arms instead. His weskit tightened across his back, noticeably but not uncomfortably.

When he dared glance back out at the dancing, a brief scan of the crowd rapidly became a longer, searching gawk; there was no sign of Bilbo spinning ‘round, nor the bright trill of his giggling anywhere beneath the sawing fiddles and cheery flutes.

“You’re certainly easy to find, byrding.” Startled, Thorin’s head jerked around so quickly, the world seemed to spin. There, standing near his elbow, stood Bilbo Baggins, with a pair of frothy mugs in his hands.

“Standing here all evening. You’ve not grown roots have you?” Bilbo’s expression was fond enough to soften the joke, even after Dis’ quip, and his hair was sticking to his forehead in damp tendrils. “Come sit with me?”

Thorin licked his lips again, the persistent cottony feeling not abating for an instant, and nodded. It was a better invitation than a request for a dance— not that Thorin had expected anything of the kind.

He followed Bilbo just a short ways off, to a gentle slope of a hill towards the edges of their party field, where the lantern light was softer and the chance of being trampled much less. The grass was dry but cool beneath Thorin’s hands and haunches as he settled down to sit, and the sweet zing of ginger beer was deliciously soothing across his tongue, after Bilbo offered him one of the mugs.

Flopped down on the grass beside him, with legs stretched and toes curling, Bilbo hummed around a sip of his own drink.

“My,” he said, smacking his lips wetly; it was a noise Thorin didn’t dare consider for too long. “That does have a kick, doesn’t it? Tasty, though.”

Using his beer to his advantage, Thorin avoided fumbling for words by taking another mouthful instead, grunting his agreement. Bilbo’s neckerchief was loosened, though not enough to appear sloppy, and the top buttons of his shirt collar were undone. When he drank, Thorin could easily watch the bob of his bare throat.

“You Bucklanders,” Bilbo continued, dragging his fingers back through his hair, ruffling the sweaty, fluffing curls. “Could dance for days, I swear. I’ve been run off my feet already, and look, they’re just getting started. It’s all terribly embarrassing, making me feel every winter of my age.”

It was true: the dancing showed no signs of slowing, but rather the music was picking up its pace, as was the squealing and reeling of Thorin’s relations and neighbours.

The beer was warm as coals in his belly, and Thorin banked up his nerve within that comforting heat, reaching out to touch Bilbo on the shoulder, before using the same hand to point off towards one of the long tables.

“Could always be worse,” he said, motioning to the sullen form of Drogo Baggins, perched backward on a bench with his shoulders slumped and his expression wistful. Behind him, sitting on the tabletop, a faunt in a minty green frock was engrossed with messily weaving flowers into Drogo’s mop of brown hair.

“Ah yes— the sting of wooing soured.” Bilbo shook his head, chuckling quietly. “Poor lad. But dear Drogo’s still so very young yet, as is your good cousin Betony, and spring fancies aren’t always meant for summer. They will both be fine given time, I daresay. And, on the bright side, not every chap is gifted with such a dapper daisy crown to ease a broken heart.”

Squinting slightly, Thorin confirmed his initial suspicion— the faunt was another Brandybuck cousin, young Primula, who was not yet nine years old if Thorin remembered correctly. It would be no surprise whatsoever if Drogo wound up with his hair full of jam, in addition to daisies, from her sticky wee fingers.

Conversation faded to a lull, as both Thorin and Bilbo lounged upon their grassy knoll and watched the revelry before them in relative peace. It was pleasant, _too_ pleasant, to sit with Bilbo beside him and simply breathe— it was far too comfortable. Too easy to grow accustomed.

Thorin felt a kernel of jealousy harden in his heart, when his attention strayed to Drogo. The lad was still moping over the loss of a romance never truly kindled past early sparks, and yet at least he had mustered the courage to _try_.

Then, without warning, Bilbo was hoisting himself to his feet, leaving his near-empty mug on the grass.

“Gracious, I nearly forgot,” he said, brushing off the seat of his trousers. “Thorin, please, will you wait here just a tick? I shan’t be long— I’ve something to show you.”

“I have no plans to go anywhere,” Thorin answered, each word falling slowly, questioningly.  He was rewarded with a blinding grin.

“Good, splendid—” Bilbo’s hand reached down, squeezing the meat of Thorin’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

Thorin watched as Bilbo scurried off in the direction of the smial, hurried strides eating up the distance. When Bilbo disappeared inside the front door, Thorin stared after him only a moment more before settling back, reclining with his elbows braced against the hill.

No one attempted to approach while Thorin was alone, looking up at the clear, inky sky— not nosy neighbours, or well-meaning kin. Dis was somewhere in the crowd, possibly charming Thrain into allowing her a mug of ale rather than risk sneaking one, or perhaps she was off giggling with Vili Took again.

The last Thorin had seen of his brother, Frerin had been eagerly telling some wildly exaggerated fishing story to a passel of tweens from across the water. Thrain’s booming laugh announced he was likely still holding court in the party tent, while Iris and Missus Belladonna were seated together over beside the row of kegs, with their feet propped up and a wreath of bluish pipe smoke nearly obscuring them entirely.

The sounds of music and cheer faded to a hum at the edges of his awareness, and Thorin let his eyes drift shut, breathing deeply. The night air felt chillier without Bilbo beside him, as though the other hobbit was some sort of living hearth, though Thorin knew that was utter nonsense. Bilbo was no warmer than any other hobbit; in fact, his hands always felt slightly cool whenever he laid them upon Thorin’s arm, shoulder, or back.

“Here we are.” Thorin managed, though just barely, not to scramble up to attention at the sound of Bilbo close behind him. He did freeze, however, taut as a harp string, when the very same cool hand that had been in his thoughts was suddenly on his cheek, knuckles brushing against his skin ever so lightly.

“I may have burgled from your hedgerow,” Bilbo said, and tucked a sprig of tiny flowers just above Thorin’s ear with quick, clever fingers, an instant before lowering himself to sit again.

Thorin raised a hand, not quite touching the flowers he could only see out of the corner of his eye— forget-me-nots, perhaps, from the clump of pastel blooms that grew along their fence. The tight clench in his gut wasn’t _quite_ embarrassment, but it was close enough that he fought back the urge to yank the blossoms from his head.

“Am I to be crowed as well?” he asked instead, searching Bilbo’s face for even the barest hint of mockery, and found nothing but soft, dark eyes and a beguiling, fondly amused smile.

“For such a prince amongst hobbits, surely,” Bilbo teased, lighthearted and harmless, then ducked his head. Though his high colour must have been due to the beer or the trek back from the smial, Thorin could almost imagine Bilbo Baggins was _flushed_ for him, looking shy.

“I also bring a gift,” Bilbo continued, hefting the fine, leather-bound book he’d had wedged under his arm. It was not some massive, dusty tome like the _Histories of the Oldbucks and Marish Folk_ kept in the library at Brandy Hall: the book was rather ordinary sized, the pages perhaps two fingers of thickness, with a leather cover dyed rich blue.

When Bilbo held the book out, like an offering, Thorin hesitated.

“A gift,” Bilbo said again, more determinedly. “A birthday gift, though tardier than I would have preferred. With all the party preparations, I hardly had a moment to catch you alone.”

Finally, Thorin allowed himself to take hold of the book, the leather supple but not flimsy as he grasped it with great, purposeful care. Uncertainty kept him from voicing the dozens of questions bubbling up his throat; Thorin hardly dared to take a deep breath as he settled the book against his knee.

There was a tiny, embossed design on the centre of the otherwise unmarked cover, and Thorin’s fingers strayed towards it. An oak leaf, hardly bigger than a thumbnail.

“Suitable for such a fine prince under a Lonely Hill, I do hope.” After a moment’s pause, Bilbo made a mildly frustrated noise, leaning closer to knock their shoulders together. “ _Open_ it, would you? It’s for reading, not just looking at.”

It was very nearly the same thing Thorin had said to his mother and Missus Belladonna about their combs, but he found he couldn’t help but waver now, faced with such an unexpected, unforeseen gift. Still, at Bilbo’s urging, he opened the cover as though it were delicate crockery in his thick-fingered hands.

“You got me a gift,” he said, as his voice finally caught up to his spinning thoughts. The very first page was nearly blank, save for a neatly scrawled title, and an illustration beneath: there, rendered in black lines of ink, stood a small drawing of a large tree, with branches spread wide, surrounded by skillful strokes to give the appearance of a lush head of leaves.

The light of the lanterns was muted and warm over by their relatively private hill, but it was enough to read by.

 _Fairy Stories of the Shire_ , the title read, _and Other Fantastic Tales_.

A book of fairy stories. Bilbo Baggins had given him a book of fauntling tales.

 _For a prince amongst hobbits_. Of course. Princes, and dragons, and fairies were a fauntling’s game, after all.

All of it, just make-believe.

Thorin’s hands flexed, tightening, but it was such beautiful binding that he forced his grip to relax before he did damage. It was hardly the fault of the bookbinder that Bilbo Baggins was a cruel, arrogant prankster.

“You’ve been dedicated,” Thorin said, keeping his voice low and tightly leashed. No matter the thunderstorm brewing behind his ribs, he would not lose his temper here, before so many of his neighbours and kin.

Perhaps that sort of tantrum was precisely what Bilbo Baggins was aiming to wring from him— quite a show, indeed. More explosive than any fireworks, and no need to wait for a conjurer to wander through.

Or perhaps it was worse than that, indeed, and Bilbo Baggins had noticed Thorin’s blooming fancy. It was a truly spiteful way to spurn an admirer, and Thorin was furious he had allowed himself to trust so blindly. This was his reward.

“Quite dedicated,” he continued, and eased the book shut. “And creative in your jape, at least. Clever and cruel, in near equal measure.”

“My what... my _jape_? Thorin—” Bilbo began to say, with confusion layered thicker than river mud, but Thorin was more than weary of the game now that the rules had come to light.

“ _Stop_.” He was nearing the end of his tether the longer he lingered, but there were things that needed saying. There were words that could not stay locked behind his teeth. “You never mocked my height, or my face, my hair— at least, not where I could hear you. Not a word about the _Sourfaced Stork_. No quips about the _Buckland Bear_. And me, stupid enough to believe there might never be. But the jig is up now, _Mister_ Baggins, and it’s been quite the joke.”

Anger ruled his movements, banishing all previous care from his thoughts, and he tossed the book aside with heedless force. It landed somewhere in the shadows, thudding against the grass, and Bilbo let loose a cry of expertly crafted anguish. A skilled liar, to the bitter end.

“A book for _faunts_.” Thorin stood, fighting back the waves of red hot ire that threatened to overwhelm his prudence entirely. “Well, you may see me as little more than weedy child, but you will _not_ goad me into a childish row. Take your shrewd mockery and your false friendship— go back to your gentle, hateful west, and no friendship of mine goes with you.”

“Thorin, wait—” Bilbo scrambled to stand, but before he could get his legs under him, Thorin swept his own foot out, catching the other hobbit’s ankles. Bilbo crumpled back to the grass with a painful sounding gasp and a tangle of limbs, and Thorin made certain to loom over his prone form using every advantage of his height and breadth.

Betrayal. That was what stung so bitterly.

Humiliation, born of his own naivety. That was what made his blood boil with shame.

He had dared to believe, to trust, on no more proof than a wisp of hope and a witless stirring in his heart. _Pitiful_.

“Stay down.” He did not go so far as to press Bilbo into the dirt with his foot, but it was darkly tempting. “Your joke is over, rat; leave me be. And don’t you _dare_ follow or I swear I will break your nose.  And _I_ , at least, am no liar.”

He needed to leave, to remove himself from this wreckage before he did something he would regret— there was no need to ruin the celebration, and no need to behave like a beast with his parents so near. The air felt stifling, tinged with the taste of copper, as Thorin spun on his heel and strode off.

Bilbo still lay on the grass, his mouth gaping open and his eyes glittering wet, but the tragic image did nothing but swell the rage in Thorin’s breast.

 _Spring fancies aren’t always meant for summer_.

Yes, Bilbo had been laughing at his foolish infatuation all evening, or likely longer. He had never deigned to waste time upon Thorin when they were tweens, and Thorin found himself wishing it had stayed as such.

He took care not to slam the front door of the smial, all too aware that the clamour would echo and travel, but he took no such precautions as he stomped into his bedroom.

The Bagginses would still be in his home tomorrow. He would be expected to breakfast with them— to sit cordially beside Bilbo Baggins over eggs and toast.

There were no lamps lit in his room, but enough light trickled in the window from the party that he was not entirely blind. Thorin stripped out of his fine waistcoat with shamefully shaking fingers, then dragged his leather rucksack from his wardrobe and tossed it onto his bed before beginning the process of stuffing it full.

A change of clothes, his knife, fishing gear, rabbit snares, a canteen, and a bedroll; Thorin left enough room for a few supplies filched from the pantry, slinging the gaping bag over one shoulder as he paused at his firmly shut bedroom door, listening. There was no obvious tread of footsteps in the corridor, no shuffling sense of another body in the shadowy smial. It seemed as though Bilbo had heeded his warning, which was an aching relief with only the barest sour tang of disappointment. Thorin’s hands would not stop clenching into fists, squeezing so tightly that his tendons screamed with it, but the thought of Bilbo’s blood smearing crimson across his knuckles made sickness roll within him.

It _should_ have been a satisfying fantasy, to give that smug face a thumping. Thorin deeply resented the fact that it was not.

Nor was it especially satisfying to tear the sprig of forget-me-nots from his hair, forgotten until they tickled his brow, and dash the blooms against the floorboards. Thorin crushed them beneath his heel, grinding down viciously, with violence he had been so very close to inflicting upon Bilbo himself after he had sent the other hobbit sprawling.

At the time, the urge to _hurt_ had been as heated and urgent as a boiling kettle. Now the memory of those dark thoughts was like a boulder on his chest, pinning him beneath such a great weight of shame.

 _Old Bungo and I raised fine babes to finer hobbits_ , Thrain had said to him, that very afternoon. Thorin could not help but wish that sentiment held more truth; Thrain Brandybuck and Bungo Baggins certainly deserved two better firstborn sons than fate had deigned to give them.

Blank paper and a stick of charcoal were simple enough to find on his desk, and Thorin squinted at the page, forcing each breath to come steadily. The longer he tarried, the more likely his flight would be discovered before it even began, and the thought of having to explain himself was more than he could reasonably bear at the moment.

 _Family_ , he wrote with brisk care, keeping his letters large and clear rather than risk them cramping together. He felt a twinge of guilt for omitting Missus Belladonna, but he could not include her without making his exclusion of Bilbo entirely apparent.

_I have gone on a walking trip. I do not expect to be more than a few days away. Not longer than a week. I have all the supplies I shall need._

_Thank you all for a fine birthday._

_Thorin_

It was a weak explanation, so vague it would do little to quell his mother’s fretting, but it was the best he could do; he was hardly about to spill his gall across the page. Setting the note in the centre of his desk, weighted down by the charcoal stick, Thorin snatched up a coat and crept out into the corridor on silent feet, leaving his bedroom door ajar behind him. The open room, ordinarily closed, would be enough hint of oddness to bring someone inside looking for him when it was noticed. His message would be easily found before anyone thought to worry.

His raid of the pantry was quick and precise: his bag buckled securely over a few crusty bread rolls and hard cheese, wrapped in cloth. Anything else he might need could be foraged; truly, he could get by rough but well enough without any such supplies from home, living on game and berries, but if he took nothing at all, his mother would certainly be livid. Then, quick as a cat, he was gone out one of the back doors and off into the night. With every long, determined stride, the lights and music of the party faded further behind him. Ahead, Buckland stretched in inky hills, the darkness as thick and soft as a velvet curtain.

If he had taken his punt, Thorin might have let the Brandywine bring him down past the Elm Glade, perhaps even as far as the Overbourn Marshes, but dragging his boat to the river was more work and more fuss than he dared risk. Instead, he headed north, trudging foot over foot through cool grass, keeping the river in sight to his left. No matter how his siblings might tease, he was wise enough to ignore any temptation eastward— the Old Forest was secluded, but with good reason. It was far too dangerous for any hobbit to traverse alone. He would not be scaling the Hay or slipping through the Gate at Crickhollow, nor indeed would he step one toe on the road to Bree. A week, his note had said, and a week away in the Buckland wilds was all he intended. He would not vanish into the great wide world and break his parents’ hearts, no matter how fiercely his own chest was paining.

A week, and no more. With any luck at all (even Thorin’s own poor luck), a week would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH THORIN.
> 
> Just to remind you all, this story will be wrapping up in a week! Final chapters will be posted on Sunday, May 25th, and you'll notice that's chapters, plural. I'm still finishing up the last bit, because I'm horrible at deadlines, but there will likely be more than the listed 10 chapters total in the final work. Best guess right now is 11 or 12. 
> 
> See you Friday <3


	9. Chapter 9

The fish were biting at Girdley Island, and though the cherry trees still hung with mostly sour yellow fruit, not quite ripe, there were tufts of sweet red strawberries popping up here and there all along the grassy banks. It was enough to keep his stomach from growling. The weather was fine, clear and pleasantly warm; it was better than a week of thundershowers or clammy drizzle, though his nose reddened from the sun by the end of the first day, and peeled by the third. He hadn’t packed his hat, but it didn’t take long for the crimson soreness on his face, arms, neck, and feet, to resolve into the beginning of his summer’s tan and the smattering of freckles that always accompanied it.

The village of Quarry was just across the water, and the sounds of people would occasionally drift over on the wind, but Thorin’s campsite was secluded enough that he could avoid the notice of any other hobbits. He spent his days fishing, he roasted trout and roach over his evening fire, and whittled green wood for hours on end, tossing countless half-carved figurines into the flames as his attention wandered. It was still early enough in summer, the barest beginning of Afterlithe, that the night air held coolness. Thorin kept his campfire crackling as the temperatures dropped with the sun, and wedged himself into a mossy patch between thick tree roots, sheltered, huddled under his coat.

It would do little good to lie to himself: he was _hiding_ , no two ways about it. He had run off like a thief in the night, and it would not be too many more days before he would have to show his face again, and explain his absence.

In the meantime, Thorin whittled and ate sun-warmed strawberries, and ruminated on a lesson learned at his grandfather’s knee.

Thorin had been just a lad, perhaps ten years old, well into losing his baby fat and already a tangle of spindled limbs to rival the clumsiest fawn, with a face like a pick-axe rather than the pudgy cheeks of his playmates. Thror had been in his nineties, a snowy haired gaffer, wizened to a callused, wrinkled walnut of a hobbit.

“Grow a hedge ‘round your heart, my boy,” Thror had said, one spring day when Thorin had come dashing home from a scuffle over childish games and torments, with torn knees and furious, teary eyes blazing. “High as the Hay, thornier than a brier patch. Dig deep, fortify yourself, here.”

Thorin vividly remembered Thror’s hand had been a heavy, sturdy weight laid on the crown of his head, and the hard glitter in Thror’s bright blue gaze as he tapped two thick fingers of his free hand against Thorin’s chest.

“Build a hedge high, tend it well, or don’t dare be surprised when the beasts come knocking. Give them naught but barbs in return when they try their claws.”

Thror had not seen spring after the Fell Winter; at ninety-nine years old, he was brought low by a bad bout of grippe, after only a few months of bitter cold and rationed firewood. And at ninety-nine years old, Thror slipped into a wheezy sleep one afternoon, and left his wife Gilliania a widow by morning.

Thorin had strangely varied recollections of his grandfather, and stories told by his kin simply supported the inconsistent, faded portrait in Thorin’s mind. Thror had been a hobbit of changeable moods, by times bolder than a bull, or as reticent and withdrawn as a mouse, burrowed away behind the door of his study. He could be proud to the point of arrogance, stubborn and harsh, but then again, often he was kind, quick to joke and quicker to laugh, with his rich, booming peals of mirth.

Of course, all hobbits had their dispositions and tempers— not even the friendliest folk were always sweet, and the sourest were known to crack smiles by times— but few humours shifted so widely and so wildly as Thror Brandybuck would sometimes suffer. The Lonely Hill itself was the product of a particularly dramatic fit of pique, after all, and Thorin had suspicions that the dark thoughts and miserable fog that would sometimes creep up upon his own spirit were inherited honestly.

Crueler neighbours, though far few between in Buckland, might whisper about the _madness_ that twisted up one branch of the Brandybuck clan like veins of rot through a tree. To most, however, all Brandybucks were already considered more than a smidgen peculiar; Thror Brandybuck and his heirs were simply forthright about it.

The point of all his woolgathering was this: Thorin’s grandfather may have been a eccentric old badger, but he had never been a fool.

 _Grow a hedge ‘round your heart, my boy_ , Thror had said, and Thorin had naively forgotten his lesson.

He had allowed Bilbo Baggins near, without a wall of thorns between them, and _Thorin_ had been the one to come out bloodied from the exchange.

Slouched on his mossy bed, Thorin scuffed his palms over his face, grinding at his bleary, itching eyes. The smoke of the fire was making them burn and water, and he wiped the dampness away with haste born of embarrassment and frustration in equal measure.

It was only the smoke of the fire, bothersome on the gentle breeze. There was no cause to be shedding tears over some ill-considered blunder, or the mockery of a puffed up coxcomb like Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin wasn’t entirely certain he could convince himself of that before it was time to start back home again, but he was determined to try.

 

* * *

 

It was hardly surprising that while Thorin had been blessed with a week of fine weather for his voluntary exile, his walk home would be a soggy misery.

The first sprinkle of rain that pattered down through his meagre shelter of treetops managed to stir Thorin from his sleep shortly after dawn, though it would be harder to judge the approach of the day with the sky rolling so ominously dark. The clouds were dense, dark, lit blood red in the east with the morning sun and deepening to plum purple and dismal charcoal grey as they rumbled westward.

The rain wasn’t even polite enough to stay a meagre drizzle— fat, heavy drops were sluicing down through his hair and over his face by the time Thorin had gathered up his small camp. He left naught but a black circle of cold fire pit and a vaguely hobbit-shaped indentation in the moss he had used as a bed, hardly any indication that he had slept, and ate, and brooded in this spot for nearly a week.

It would be no better to sit and cower beneath dripping leaves than it was to shore up and begin his walk. He was already soaked to the skin before he even stepped foot back on the path home. So Thorin slung his pack and his fishing rod over his shoulders and headed out into what had become a proper summer downpour, with cool rain and sticky, warm air hanging close and heavy.

He walked some distance away from the Brandywine this time, keeping to wild field and forest farther inland rather than the riverbank. It would be quite the ignoble return if he trudged back into his family smial, with slimy duckweed in his hair and stinking of thick brown silt, after losing his footing in the rain-slick grass. Fields would turn swampy, if the rain kept up as it was, and Buckland Road would become a mire as packed earth gave way to mud and puddles, but at least there was less chance of drowning.

It wasn’t until he was past the bridge and on the road that Thorin realised the Bagginses might not have left for Hobbiton yet. There was a chance, and not a far-fetched one, that their guests might still be lingering when he trudged back into the Lonely Hill.

The very thought of it turned his blood icy in his veins. He shivered, and not entirely from the wet rivulets sliding under his collar and down his back, or the clammy clinging of his shirt to his chest.

It was with that thought in mind that Thorin found himself ducking into the dense bushes that grew up along this portion of road, all but diving head-first into a copse of what turned out to be a hawthorn hedge. The thick spines were merciless, digging into his legs and sides, but there was absolutely no time to search for a more pleasant hiding spot: with the muffling sound of rain, he had been lucky to hear the rumble of wheels before the approaching wagon crested the gentle hill in front of him.

Meeting the Bagginses on the road like this, sodden and shamefaced, would be worse than returning home to find them still there. A hundred thousand times worse.

Thorin could feel the flesh over his ribs stinging, and vaguely realised that he’d managed to tear his shirt, though he couldn’t spare a thought for how extensive the damage might be. His mother was going to skin him alive regardless, no matter the state of his wardrobe upon his return. At that moment, all of his attention was firmly focused on the wagon rolling closer, and on sinking himself deeper into his punishing hideaway. He squinted, rain dripping into his eyes, trying to make out the wagon driver’s identity.

But of course, it wasn’t any Baggins holding the reins. It wasn’t even a goat wagon, but rather a smaller two-wheeled cart, drawn by a lumbering spotted pig and led by some hobbit Thorin didn’t recognize. The chap was wearing a wide-brimmed cap and had his feet stuffed into boots of all things— one of those odd folk from the Marish, or possibly Bree. Just some random traveller on the road, and certainly nothing worth a leap into the hedgerow. Just his luck, of course.

Rather than clamber out of the underbrush, Thorin stayed firmly planted in his hiding spot until the traveller had rolled past, embarrassment winning out over discomfort. It took a few long, awkward moments, but eventually, Thorin was satisfied that the cart had moved along far enough to allow his escape to succeed unseen. Slowly, so as to avoid jabbing himself more than necessary against the large thorns, Thorin unfolded himself from the bushes and crept back onto the road.

As he’d expected, there were a few small tears and specks of crimson seeping into his wet shirt here and there. There was a thick, broken thorn stuck through the hem of his coat, and Thorin plucked it out and flicked it back toward the bushes. His coat had protected his arms and back, for the most part, but his trousers had been less effective in keeping his thighs and arse unpunctured. His bare calves were crosshatched with long red scrapes, a few of them bleeding slightly, as were his feet and hands. The rain was making his forehead sting, just over his right eyebrow; he would hardly be surprised to find a scratch or two there as well.

He looked as though he’d lost a fight to a particularly tetchy housecat, and he was clammy and soaked down to his underthings. Blowing a long, resigned breath from his nose, Thorin wiped his hand across his brow (uselessly), and then started trudging down the mucky road again.

 

* * *

 

The windows of the Lonely Hill were lit golden, and the lantern by the front door was burning brightly against the soggy grey night. It wasn’t the only smial glowing gilded in the dark, with numerous windows lit across the hills, and chimneys puffing the scent of woodsmoke out into the marshy air.

Thorin hadn’t met a single other hobbit as he’d cut through the edge of Bucklebury; the rest of the town was apparently wise enough to stay toasty and dry, and out of the deluge. It was probably past time for supper, though it was harder to precisely judge the time with the sky hidden behind a canopy of cloud. Still, after a week of simple campfire fare and foraged berries, Thorin couldn’t help but imagine bowls of hot, hearty soup and stew, chasing the dampness out of his bones.

Slipping through the garden gate, Thorin avoided the front door, slinking quickly around to the side of the smial instead. With any luck at all, the door to his storeroom workshop wouldn’t yet be bolted for the night—

The brass knob was slick in his damp hand, refusing to turn, and for a moment Thorin thought his troubles might simply be a symptom of his poor grip, but no. The knob rattled, but didn’t give way: it was locked, and likely bolted from the inside.

Rather than scurry back to the front door, Thorin shrugged himself free of his pack, propping it against the door, then slid down to sit beside it. There was a shallow awning built out just above the door, where the room jutted slightly, but it was not quite deep enough to keep him properly protected. Still, Thorin sat, with the seat of his trousers soaking up rainwater from the flagstone path, and watched nearby hydrangeas bobbing and sagging under the showering water.

The rain was just as heavy in Bucklebury as it had been that morning at Girdley Island, some ten leagues away, but the town square hadn’t become a lake— it didn’t look as though Bucklebury had suffered hours upon hours of teeming downpour yet. Thorin had a sneaking suspicion that the poor weather had followed him south, which would certainly be keeping with his luck that day.

Leaning his head back against blue painted wood, resting his forearms on his bent knees, Thorin studied the torn skin on his hands. The scrapes from the thorns had stopped their slight, sluggish bleeding, but any scabbing was soft, and the marks were tender to touch. He had not a single sliver of doubt that his mother would be keen to slather him in some foul smelling salve when she saw the state of him. Probably something particularly pungent, to better convey her displeasure at his disappearance.

The thorns had caught his knuckles, bloodying the knobbly joints of his right hand; it was the same hand he’d bruised against the frame of this doorway, weeks before, when he’d been lugging his punt home after its maiden voyage. That had been the day Bilbo Baggins had arrived in Buckland, with his false, brassy smiles and patient, mocking game.

 _It's very good to see you, you know_ , Bilbo had said, standing there so neatly combed, polished, and handsome, while Thorin had been dirty and sour with sweat, only _slightly_ less of a miserable shambles than he was at the moment.

Thorin wondered, with a sharp twinge biting behind his ribs, whether Bilbo had decided upon his jape at that moment, or whether it had been his plan before he’d even left Hobbiton. Had he carefully crafted his cruelty— coaxing childish, naive Beaky Brandybuck with unexpected overtures of friendship, with the blossoming warmth of attraction, of affection— only to dash it all back in Thorin’s face? Certainly, it hadn’t taken much work. Thorin had fallen, without the excuse of having been pushed; he had taken the bait so easily, hook, line, and sinker.

He certainly was _not_ distracted by the bitter memory of Bilbo’s dimpled smile, or any quaking in Thorin’s guts when Bilbo had laid hands upon his arm, his back, had touched his face. Distracted or not, however, he failed to notice the scrape of the bolt being undone. Or, at least, he failed to notice in time to avoid toppling into the storeroom when the door behind his back was suddenly pulled inward.

Landing hard across the threshold, flat on his back like an upended beetle, Thorin coughed as the air was startled from his lungs. His father peered down from above, narrowing his good eye to a hard, flinty slit.

“Thought you might be a stray cat.” Thrain sounded almost disappointed that he’d discovered his eldest son, rather than a sopping tabby. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; _cats_ have the sense to stay out of this weather.”

 _Unlike you_.

While Thorin caught his breath, his mind entirely blank of what he should say, Thrain hummed, considering, and nodded toward the open door.

“In or out, lad,” Thrain said, though there wasn’t any hint of question in his tone. “You’re letting the storm in.”

Hauling himself up and dragging his pack, Thorin scrambled inside the storeroom; Thrain gave him a wide berth, glancing pointedly at the growing puddles Thorin brought along, pooling around his feet and the backpack he left slumped and sodden, just inside. The door swung shut with a resounding thud, and Thorin flinched at the finality of the sound before he could school his reaction.

“Wring yourself out, then go get cleaned up.” The bolt slid shut and clicked, locked, beneath Thrain’s thick fingers. “You’ll be mopping the floor, after.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thrain paused, his back turned and one hand resting on the door, staring at the wood rather than at his son.

“You are a hobbit grown, Thorin,” he said after a long, significant silence. “You can do as you like, go as you like. But there is a certain _courtesy_ , of a sort I thought you possessed.”

Thrain’s head turned, cutting a sideways look sharper than a freshly honed razor. It cut, stinging Thorin much deeper than the hawthorn had managed.

“You worried your mother.”

 _I left a note_ , he did not say, because he had known a few scribbled lines on a sheet of paper was hardly sufficient even as he’d been writing it. Not for a week’s absence, unexplained.

“Yes, sir,” he said instead, and fought the urge to fidget, to rub his neck or scuff his foot. He wasn’t a callow lad— that was what made this all the worse. He knew better, or was meant to.

“Go get cleaned up,” Thrain said again, then huffed in a great, deep breath, his chest like fireplace bellows. His hand was a solid weight when it landed on Thorin’s shoulder, a steady comfort, undeserved. “There’ll be hot supper waiting. Gracious sakes, but you’re a mess, my lad. Were you sleeping in a brier patch?”

“Hawthorn bush,” Thorin replied, but offered no further explanation, and silently hoped Thrain wouldn’t pry. Better his father think he’d suffered a clumsy tumble than the complete truth of the matter.

_I jumped into a thorn bush and cowered like a craven rather than risk meeting the Bagginses on the road._

_I cannot bear to see Missus Belladonna when I’m still yearning to blacken her son’s eye._

_I cannot bear to see Bilbo._

_I cannot bear wanting to see Bilbo._

Thorin blinked, and forcibly pushed all those swirling thoughts aside. His heart was already hammering fit to crack his ribs; the Bagginses might still be in the smial. He could not ask his father whether or not their guests were lingering, and had no other way of knowing beyond wading out into that deep water himself.

“Go on.” Thrain’s hand lifted from his shoulder, patted briefly, then withdrew. “I’ll let your mother know you’re home. Best hurry, or she’ll be coming after you, dressed or no.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin had squeezed a great deal of water from his clothes and hair before he stepped foot out of the storeroom and into the smial properly; he had no desire to leave more of a dripping trail than absolutely necessary as he made his escape off towards his bedroom. There was a real element of haste, as well, urging him on to put himself to rights as much as possible before Iris came looking. He’d worried her already, and there wasn’t any need to stumble into the kitchen looking half-drowned.

He all but ran down the corridor, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible while still quick as lightning— he saw no other living soul on his wild dash, neither kin or guest. Small blessings.

Skidding into his room, Thorin closed the door behind himself and pressed his brow against the wood, standing silent and unmoving. He counted his breaths, in and out, and slowed them. The tight grip around his chest gradually eased, and the edges of his vision seemed less dark and apt to close in upon him.

He was a Brandybuck of the Lonely Hill. He was strong enough to weather this, whatever came.

He was not expecting the sight that greeted him, when he finally turned to face his room.

There were flowers. On his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more update left to come! Thank you all for reading along so far <3


	10. Chapter 10

Thorin’s eyes darted around the room, looking for any further oddities or some clue about the slightly wilted bunch of blooms laid out across his desktop. There was nothing else out of place, at least not obviously. Only the riot of vivid yellow and blue— a few small daffodils and sprigs of larkspur, a nosegay tied with a plain cord.

Slowly, as though sneaking up on a sleeping bear, Thorin inched toward the bouquet. The trumpets of the daffodils had begun to curl, darkening brownish at the edges, and the larkspur petals were crinkled and soft— the flowers had seen better, fresher days, though they still held their colour. Bruised by time and drying out, but not yet withered.

Thorin’s clothes were stiff and heavy with dampness, and the flowers would still be there after he changed into something dry, but this mystery had snared his attention. A mystery, until he noticed the damnably familiar blue book hidden away beneath the flowers.

Evidently, Bilbo Baggins had no shame, nor any conception of giving up once a joke had run its course.

It was no fault of the bookbinder, Thorin reminded himself. Whomever had sewn the pages and tooled the fine leather cover had done beautiful, skillful work. It would be wasteful, truly childish, and beneath his dignity to consign the hateful thing to the kitchen hearth as kindling.

He had no such compunctions about the flowers, however, roughly snatching up the bouquet with every intention of tossing it out the window. He needed it out of his sight as expediently as possible.

His hand squeezed around the stems, and the sticky crush of them against his palm was less soothing than he had hoped. Just then, before he could make good on his plan of disposal, an unexpected flutter of movement brought him up short. He watched as a folded piece of paper fell free from the flowers, landing gently on the cover of the book.

A note, perhaps. Thorin stared at it for a long, tense moment— there was no good reason to even read it. There was nothing it could say, no lies Bilbo Baggins might try to weave, or sly jibes it might contain, that would make this situation any easier to bear. He had every right to crumple it, to tear it to pieces, unread and unremarked, but some bitter instinct rolling in his gut convinced him to pick it up instead.

Thorin unfolded the note with a flick of his thumb, and squared his shoulders before allowing his eyes to scan the neatly written words.

> _Thorin,_
> 
> _I deeply regret that we parted on such poor terms when last we spoke. Please allow me to beg your pardon for offense I have caused. Any hurt was unintended, truly. If you do not choose to grant me your pardon, I at least ask that you allow me to explain your gift before you cast this note aside._
> 
> _No. Perhaps the gift might explain itself better than I. Words have never struggled so much to flow from my pen as they now do, and I fear stumbling into another gaffe. I still have not sussed all the reasons for our previous row, but I do know that I angered you, somehow._
> 
> _A liar, you called me. I can hardly expect you to believe my words now, though I do dearly hope you will some day hear the truth in them._
> 
> _For now, for my father’s sake if nothing else, please open the book._
> 
> _Always your friend,_
> 
> _Bilbo Baggins_

Thorin read the note three times, then set it back on the desk. His hands clenched, empty.

He needed to change his clothes. There was no question about that, and there were too many questions about everything else.

Thorin forced himself to take a long, lurching step away, towards his wardrobe. His skin felt hard from the damp chill of rain still clinging to him, awash in gooseflesh as he peeled himself free of tacky, wet fabric.

Behind him, on the desk, the book stayed untouched and silent. _For my father’s sake if nothing else_. What in the world did Bungo Baggins have to do with any of this? It was a ploy— another trick, surely— and in particularly poor taste, as well.

That suspicion did nothing to stop Thorin’s rabbiting heart, or the shameful tremble in his fingers as he did up the buttons of a dry shirt. Curiosity would be his ruin, pulling him back towards the book as a lodestone drew nails.

Hair was sticking to his neck in itchy, cold tendrils, and the scratches he’d earned in the brier had begun to sting in earnest now. There was absolutely nothing comfortable about this situation.

“Bother it all,” Thorin said under his breath, scrubbing one hand hard through his hair, and crossed over to his desk again. The smell of the wilting flowers was darkly pungent compared to the warm, cedar scent of his wardrobe, filling his nose with thick floral death.

The spine of the book spread just as smooth and quiet as the first time Thorin had opened it. The cover lifted, and the title page lay stark and bare before him again.

 _Fairy Stories of the Shire and Other Fantastic Tales_. The drawing of the tree was just the same as he remembered, and even more impressively rendered here, in the bright lamplight: smooth, crisp lines of ink bringing a large, sprawling oak to life across a flat page.

 _For my father’s sake_.

Later, Thorin would cast some blame upon the darkness of the evening, and the poor illumination of party lanterns, though he would grudgingly admit that the majority of this misunderstanding had been born from his own fears. At this precise moment, however, standing in his bedroom in his shirtsleeves, scratched to ribbons and sullen, Thorin felt as though the floor had opened up beneath his feet.

There, below the intricate texture of bark and lines of tree roots, was a scrawl of small, flourished letters he had not seen before.

_By Bungo Baggins_

_Complied & Illustrated by Bilbo Baggins_

“Oh.” It was fortunate his chair was nearby— close enough to grab, when his knees refused to hold him. Thorin’s arse hit the seat hard enough to force his breath out in one rattling gust, and his legs twisted clumsy and gawky, like those of a newborn fawn.

 _Fairy Stories of the Shire and Other Fantastic Tales, By Bungo Baggins_.

“Oh,” Thorin said again, weakly, and barely dared to touch the pages for fear of smudging such fine work with his dirty hands, fouled with mud, blood, and whatever else. A book, written by Mister Baggins. A book of stories, of adventures and heroes, of magic and mysteries, like the sort Mister Baggins had enthralled Thorin with on many an afternoon.

Bilbo had tried to give him such a meaningful gift, and Thorin had thrown it back in his face, very nearly literally. Thorin had insulted him, knocked him in the dirt, and then fled like the child he purported _not_ to be.

Oh, mercy— had he truly misjudged this so egregiously? Even if Bilbo were the cruel and callous beast Thorin had painted him, giving a copy of a book his own departed father had written was a step beyond even the most vicious pranks. How many copies of this volume could there be? Thorin’s father had never spoken of Bungo writing such an anthology, nor had Thorin ever heard word of it in any local gossip. As far as he recalled from his youth, Mister Baggins had recited all his tales from memory, rather than referencing any notes or texts.

A horrible, mortifying thought muscled its way to the fore of his mind, shoving all other wondering aside: what if this book, _this very book_ , was the _only_ copy?

Bilbo… Bilbo couldn’t have done such a thing. He _wouldn’t—_ who in their right mind would give away such a treasure, if that were true? A book of the tales Bungo Baggins had been eager to tell, to share. A finely made, well-tended book, perhaps written in Mister Baggins own hand, and Bilbo had given it away? Bilbo had given it to _him_ , given it twice—

“Thorin Brandybuck!” A heavy pounding against his bedroom door nearly made Thorin leap out of his own skin. His mother’s furious voice from the other side was more terrifying, still. “Come out here and let me see what you’ve done to yourself this time!”

Thorin was entirely unprepared for anything beyond a desperate scrabbling to sort out this situation— the book and Bilbo and what exactly had gone wrong— but there was only so much patience he could expect from his family after his unannounced leave. And, more than that, there were questions about all of this that he was not yet ready (might _never_ be ready) to discuss with his _mother_. He needed to put on a good show of normalcy, or as normal as he was able.

Wiping grit from his eyes, hoping desperately they did not look as reddened as they felt, Thorin did his very best to tamp down the whirlwind picking up speed in his chest. Smoothing his shirt, Thorin hauled himself up and over to the door just as his mother battered it with another volley of knocks.

Pulling the door open just wide enough to squeeze out, Thorin shuffled into the corridor, keeping his body between his mother and his bedroom. His room, when he’d arrived, had been open; it was likely his mother already knew about the flowers, perhaps even the book, but the urge to attempt some vain grasp at secrecy was nearly as strong as the urge to hide away again.

“Thorin!” He hadn’t considered that his sudden appearance might startle his mother as much as her knocking had done to him; it was one more thoughtless gaffe to add to his quickly mounting pile of mistakes.

“Gracious sakes, lad.” Fluttering her hand against her chest momentarily, taking a short step backward, Iris didn’t allow herself to falter for long. Drawing up to her full height, she was barely three feet of fiery, maternal displeasure— fists planted on her wide hips, hazel eyes flashing like hot coals, and her usually smiling mouth drawn into a pinched, hard line.

“Honestly, what am I meant to do with you,” she said, and Thorin was oddly relieved it was so obviously not a question meant to be answered. He had nothing to say for himself, and even less trust in his voice.

His mother tutted, stretching up to cup his cheek with one warm palm, and proceeded to study the miserable state of him. The tightness at the corners of her eyes grew worse as her gaze trailed over his face, then down the length of him. By the time she saw his bloodied hands, Iris was nearly squinting with displeasure.

“I won’t even bother to ask if you’ve eaten,” she said, taking both his hands in her own, drawing them up to see the cuts in more detail. They were shallow scrapes, mostly, though he’d found a rather nasty gouges higher on his arms and along his ribs when he’d changed his shirt. “Kitchen, now. I’m fetching some salve for this mess, and I’ll not hear a peep of grumbling about it either.”

Nodding deeply, Thorin gave his mother’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “Yes, Mum.”

“But don’t you dare think I’m not cross, Thorin.” Despite her words, the aching knot in his chest relaxed ever so slightly when Iris returned the finger squeeze, rubbing her callused thumbs ever so softly along his sore knuckles. “Even if I’m going to hug the stuffing out of you once you’re fed and knitted back together, you silly boy.”

 

* * *

 

His mother hadn’t been exaggerating with her promise and, unfortunately, her enthusiastic hugging resulted in too sharp a sting to properly hide his wince. That mistake had led to Iris’ insistence that Thorin have all his scrapes tended, no matter how minor, or how… private.

He would die a happy hobbit if he _never again_ had to argue with his mother about whether or not he was going to drop his trousers in the kitchen and show her his bum. He had suffered some thorns there, but there were some limits that he would defend with every stubborn bone in his body— he would tend to certain scratches himself.

By the time all was said and done, Thorin trudged back to his room with a full belly and stinking of truly foul salve. The odour hung around him, thick as fog and tickling sharply at the back of his throat.

The Bagginses, at the very least, had indeed left for Hobbiton a few days before Thorin’s return. It was some relief that he was not forced to trot around in front of guests smelling like this, but that was only a small boon among other, more significant benefits of having only his family near to see his disgraceful state.

He hadn’t been able to completely set aside thoughts of what waited for him after he had been fed and fussed over to his mother’s satisfaction. The book, the memory of his behaviour, and the mixed up morass of his thoughts when it came to Bilbo Baggins: none of that seemed promising for a peaceful evening’s rest.

Neither was the sight of Frerin lingering outside Thorin’s bedroom door, an especially auspicious sign of a calm evening to come.

Leaning against the wall next to the doorframe, Frerin greeted Thorin with a lift of his chin and a crooked, half-smile. “Got a moment?”

Thorin started to cross his arms, then remembered the thick smears of salve that had been worked into his knuckles, mostly absorbed but still greasy enough to get all over his shirt. The aborted shift of his arms upward, then falling back to hang limply at his sides, was impossible to disguise as anything but fidgeting.

He straightened up a bit more instead. “What is it, Frerin?”

“I just want a quick word, is all.” Glancing up and down the corridor, Frerin rarely looked so circumspect. Then he tilted one thumb in the direction of Thorin’s door. “In private? It’s personal.”

Thorin’s mind immediately snapped to the flowers, the book, and all the questions Frerin might have about them; he shook his head, careful to tone down the vehemence he was feelings. “I’m tired—”

“Half a moment, then.” Frerin’s smile waned, shifting to something much more rueful than his usual cavalier expression. “It’s about Bilbo.”

That was all the more reason for him to refuse the company, but Thorin had always had a stubbornly held preference for slaking his curiosity rather than repressing it. It was better to live in knowledge than in ignorance, even if knowledge could be agonizing. Better to face the pain awake, aware, and informed, than to be blindsided by it later.

“Fine.” Thorin swallowed hard, throat clicking, as he reached to open his bedroom door and step inside. Frerin was tight on his heels, and just as Thorin had suspected, his brother didn’t seem at all surprised to see the flowers still laying on the desk. The entire family probably knew what had happened, or at least they knew enough details to make Thorin’s stomach sour with embarrassment.

“All right.” Thorin didn’t bother offering Frerin a seat; his brother would plant himself where ever he pleased. It was with that in mind that Thorin claimed the desk chair, rather than allow Frerin to wander too near the book or the blooms. “Talk, then.”

“A week in the woods didn’t do much for your mood, did it.” Meandering farther into the room, Frerin held up both hands in surrender when Thorin levelled a dark glare in his direction. “I stand corrected; it’s even worse now, obviously. Wait, you’re not an _actual_ bear in my brother’s clothes, are you? Is that what that awful smell is?”

Frerin was damned lucky he’d mentioned Bilbo— that had been enough to set Thorin’s curiosity at odds with his annoyance, and curiosity was still winning. “You’re wasting your moment.”

“Right, yes.” Dropping down to sit on the foot of the bed, Frerin drew up one leg, tucking it under himself. “I won’t keep you from your moping for long. Just… Thorin. What happened, brother? I was so sure you were as sweet on him as he is on you.”

“What?” Thorin might have been mortified by the way his voice cracked over the word, but he could hardly hear himself over the rushing sound in his ears. “ _What_?”

Frerin’s eyes widened after only an instant’s hesitation. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you mean, _what_?”

“What?” Thorin said again, because apparently all other words had abandoned him.

“What a mess, is _what_.” Frerin rubbed one hand over his forehead, looking rather like their father when Thrain was pouring over correspondences from troublesome relations. “Damn it, Thorin, tell me you’re not going to make me explain this. Dis said you might not know, but I was so _sure_ —”

“ _Frerin_.” Bottles of ink and other incidentals shuddered together when Thorin’s palm smacked hard against the desktop. Frerin, likewise, jerked back as though he’d been burnt. “What… what are you talking about?”

“Mercy,” Frerin muttered, barely audible, then spoke up. There was a sombre quality to his bearing that looked so incongruous hardening his usual joviality. “Sod this, I’m just going to say it: Bilbo fancies you, you grumpy old twit. And I see now that you had no buggering idea, which is honestly the most astonishing thing I’ve heard in my life.”

Thorin couldn’t imagine feeling more gobsmacked than he did at that moment. It would have been less jarring if Frerin had swung a shovel at his skull.

“He wasn’t exactly subtle, you know,” Frerin continued, with a strange sort of ease for someone speaking such twaddle. “Following you around like a puppy for weeks. Smitten as a buck in springtime. And the _flirting_ , the both of you—”

The back of Thorin’s neck was itching, but not with damp hair this time. The flush he could feel creeping upwards, moving up his ears, was hotter than fire. There had been no flirting, and there certainly was no _both of them_.

“That’s— that can’t be true.” Focusing on a spot on the wall rather than his brother’s face seemed a wise proposition, since Thorin had no interest in bursting into flames. “He wasn’t _smitten_. No one— no. He wasn’t. He was just being polite, friendly— he’s always _friendly_.”

“Thorin, brother, look at me.” It would have been ridiculous to refuse, but Thorin still considered shaking his head, before giving in. Frerin’s eyebrows were raised high and expectant when Thorin forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze again.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Frerin said, slow and carefully enunciated. Thorin didn’t have enough faculties left to be insulted, despite being spoken to as though he’d taken a hard blow to the head. “Is entirely smitten with you. Trust me, if you won’t trust your own sense. And trust that.”

He pointed, indicating the wilted flowers by Thorin’s elbow.

“Bouquet like that,” Frerin said. “Speaks volumes, doesn't it?”

Thankfully, Thorin wasn’t forced to do more than stare blankly for a moment before Frerin continued, exasperated. “You don’t remember your flower language lessons, do you.”

It clearly wasn’t a question, but Thorin still shook his head in a jerky, minute movement.

“Wonderful. This won’t be awkward in the slightest.” Sweeping his hand toward the flowers again, more dramatically this time, Frerin explained. “Daffodils and blue larkspur. The larkspur is for boldness, for an open heart, and, well, for ardent attachment. The daffs are fond regard, and… ah. For unrequited love.”

Ardent attachment? Unrequited _love_?

Thorin was drowning on dry land.

“That can’t be true,” he repeated, sounding rough, as though he’d been shouting for hours.

Frerin shrugged slightly, lifting only one shoulder. “We can go fetch one of Papa’s books and check, if you like, but _I_ paid attention to my lessons. That’s a courting bouquet, I promise you that, though not the cheeriest I can imagine. Still, not as tragic as it could be, considering.”

Something panicked and desperate was beating against his ribs, flapping like a caged bird, and Thorin scrambled for some explanation for all of this that wasn’t complete _nonsense_. Frerin was direly mistaken if he thought Bilbo Baggins would ever consider Thorin like that.

“Courting?” The smell of the flowers, though still heavy with age, wasn’t nearly as stifling as it had been. Thorin almost wished he had given in to his initial urge and tossed them out the window. “That’s not— Surely Bilbo has some better prospects in the Shire. Why would he… choose _this_? Why would he choose some ugly, foul tempered Bucklander, over any number of the Shire beauties nipping at his heels? Likely has a sweetheart in every Farthing...”

“Oi, watch it.” Frerin sat up, both feet resting on the floor now; his tone was sharper than Thorin had ever heard it. “I broke the nose of the last stupid blighter who called my brother ugly. Don’t think I won’t do it again.”

Thorin had nothing to say that wouldn’t end in an argument, and now was hardly the time. He knew what he looked like, and no amount of his brother’s loyalty would change the truth of that.

“And what are you on about,” Frerin continued. “A sweetheart in every Farthering? Bilbo’s not interested in any _Shire beauties_ , for goodness sake. He’s never had a sweetheart, which is something you’d have known, if you pulled your head out of your arse and came along to Hobbiton once and a while. Broke the Bagginses hearts when you stopped coming, and Bilbo most of all.”

“Shut up.” It seemed even his best intentions might not be enough to prevent a row; Thorin’s hackles were rising, and Frerin was bristling as well. “What do _you_ know about it—”

“I know plenty!” Frerin stood, and Thorin barely stopped himself from following suit. It would help no one at all if he let his temper get away from him again, and looming over his brother brought up too many memories of Bilbo knocked to the dirt.

“I know you’re a hard-headed grump,” Frerin said, not _quite_ shouting. “But not even half as beastly as you’ve convinced yourself you are. And I know folk have been whispering about _young bachelor Baggins_ for years now, after Bilbo’s turned down a half dozen suits. They’re forever calling him unsociable and odd— calling it a _pity_.”

Stepping forward, Frerin actually crowded close enough to jab one finger against the centre of Thorin’s chest. “I know that Bilbo smiles like the sun’s come out after a week of rain every time he looks at you, and you’re all flustered just the same about him. Which means I know more than _you_ , don’t I? So if anyone ought to shut up and _listen_ , it’d best be you, brother.”

Without waiting for Thorin to respond, Frerin threw his hands up, stalking towards the door with long, furious strides.

“Hang on—” Thorin began to say, only to be cut off.

“Hang on yourself.” Frerin didn’t flee into the hallway, but he did turn his back on the room, bracing both hands on the closed door. “I’m taking a moment before I say something I regret. Hush.”

Frerin was not known to regret much of anything, flitting about with all the cares and all the cheer of a songbird. For that reason, the strength of this reaction was enough to make Thorin sit back and take account of all that had been said.

After Frerin had been silent for several long moments, Thorin eventually found his voice again, without any of his earlier ire.

“You don’t already regret calling me a _grumpy old twit_ , then? Even a little?”

He had dared to make an attempt at humour, to banish even a fraction of the tension that had billowed into the room, and it was a relief when Frerin actually chuckled hoarsely.

“Not for an instant,” Frerin said, turning just enough to peer back at his brother over one shoulder. “Especially not when it’s all true. Twit.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so very privileged to work with some amazing artists for this Big Bang. I'm grateful beyond measure for their encouragement and kindness throughout this process, and for the gorgeous art they have created, and continue to create for my story.
> 
> Here, see for yourselves and please give these artists all the copious love they deserve:
> 
>   * [Art by Aakahime4](http://archiveofourown.org/series/96284)
>   * [Art by noneedforsuspicion](http://noneedforsuspicion.tumblr.com/post/86853857178/lineart-for-the-wonderful-hobbit-big-bang-fic-ive)
>   * [Art by sevenums](http://sevenums.tumblr.com/post/86861573774/for-the-hobbit-big-bang-pibroch-littleblackdogs)
>   * [ Art by thejerseydevile](http://thejerseydeviledoodleblog.tumblr.com/post/86759312703/for-pibroch-and-her-lovely-hobbit-big-bang-fic)
> 

> 
> ...and more to come!

_What are you going to do now?_

Frerin had asked that the night before, after the ire of their aborted argument had cooled entirely. Thorin had calmed himself, Frerin had sat back down, and they had continued to discuss all that had happened, peeling back the countless layers of this bizarre situation.

The assumption had not been that Thorin was obliged to do anything— Frerin insisted that both Bilbo and Thorin were sweet on each other, but he pushed Thorin for nothing more than an admission. There had been no pressure to apologise, to seek Bilbo out, or any other foolish gestures plucked from the old, romantic tales.

No, there had been no pressure to act upon any fondness he might harbour for Bilbo Baggins. No pressure to make a fool of himself like that.

Which meant Thorin’s current situation was entirely his own fault.

It was just past sunset when the village of Bywater appeared over the hill— Thorin had been sitting in the back of this wagon since before dawn. He had begged and wheedled Alfric Brandybuck to allow him to hitch a ride with the day’s fish delivery to Hobbiton, and had been buffeted around between barrels of sloshing perch and eels for long, anxious hours.

It had not been the most comfortable ride, but it was a quicker trip by wagon than on foot, especially with Alfric’s best goats hauling the wagon. Fish fetched a better profit the fresher they were, of course, and Alfric boasted only a day’s travel between the west shore of the Brandywine, and his arrival in Bywater— the early morning catch would be sold at the next day’s market for a pretty penny, the fish still clear-eyed and shiny.

_I’ll handle Mum_ , Frerin had said, bravely or foolishly. More likely a mixture of the two. _She’ll understand, if you’re off to sort things out._

Thorin was significantly less convinced that his mother would understand him vanishing again, having spent only one single night under the roof of the Lonely Hill. One night of murmured conversation with his brother, one half-cocked, exhausted notion that burrowed into his mind deeper than any brier thorns had punched through his skin. One night, and one ridiculous, impulsive plan— if he gave himself any time to consider how mad this all was, he feared he would never go through with any of it.

One night, before stealing off again in the dim before dawn, and hopping a ride on a wagon that would bring him across half the Shire.

Perhaps he’d gotten a touch of heatstroke during his stay at Girdley Island, and finally addled his wits. Perhaps it was the stress of his return home, the scolding disappointment from his parents, the oddity of the gift that had waited for him…

Or perhaps he was determined to follow Frerin’s suggestion, and pull his head out of his arse. Thorin wasn’t entirely certain, but he was staunchly committed to his current endeavour, to whatever end.

The wheels of the wagon rumbled against the road, dustier here than back home. Apparently, Bywater hadn’t had the same recent downpour as Buckland— the fields on either side of the road had looked healthy, green and rolling, but progressively less muddy the further west they’d travelled. The sun had been bright, once it had risen, and Thorin had steadily baked over the course of the day, grateful for the shade of his hat and the large canteen of water he’d thought to bring along.

Alfric hummed the entire ride, almost constantly, when he wasn’t talking to the goats. When attempts to speak with Thorin resulted in gruffly polite, single word answers, Alfric apparently decided to leave his passenger alone. It was a small blessing, but Thorin would hardly complain about any amount of solitude to focus upon his task.

It had taken nearly the entire day, but he’d managed some degree of success. The wreath was somewhat lopsided, the blooms not as balanced as he might have wished, but the intricacies of weaving flowers was surprisingly different from carving wood or even tying fishing line. There were a few broken stems in the bed of the wagon, and petals scattered around where Thorin sat, but he had managed to salvage the final creation.

It was the best he could do, in the time he’d been given. He had little faith it would be enough, but he had to try.

He had always valued knowledge over ignorance, even when that knowledge cut cruel and deep into the very heart of him. He had to _try_ , even if the answer was almost certain to be as dismal as he expected. Even if the answer was a vehement, well-deserved, and unequivocal _no_.

Bywater rose into view, and Thorin ducked deeper into the wagon bed, admittedly hiding. They were too close to Hobbiton to take more chances than necessary, even without the daylight to give him away.

“All right, cousin?” Alfric called back to him, glancing over one shoulder, and Thorin made a wordless noise of agreement. “Right, then. Nearly to the Dragon.”

They arrived at the inn shortly thereafter; Thorin left Alfric’s company with a word or two of gratitude on his lips and fewer copper coins in his pocket. It was late enough that he could not call on Bag End that night, and the Green Dragon was known for decent lodging at a fair price: a wise business decision, for an inn along the East Road, nearly halfway between Buckland and Michel Delving.

Thorin kept his hat brim pulled low as he slipped through the main door of the Dragon, already standing out enough for his height amongst these Shirefolk. His face and the faint shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks would do him no favours, and there was always the risk of being recognised. He did not want word reaching the Bagginses that he had come to the West Farthing before he had himself in order and his plan in place.

Procuring a room for the night was a simple matter, the innkeep asked few questions, and Thorin suffered only a handful of curious looks from the inn’s patrons, with no audible comments. No worse than any stranger might suffer, perhaps, though Thorin still kept his face turned away and his chin lowered. It was all surprisingly straightforward, and that ease alone was enough to make him nervous.

The room was small, and the bed was smaller, but the linens were clean and fresh. Thorin’s coin had bought him supper as well, and he managed to bolt down a quarter chicken and potatoes despite the churning in his gut, as well as a likely ill-advised half-pint of ale.

After that meal, it was barely any time at all before the exhaustion of the past days overcame him, trampling his spirit with all the pitilessness stomping of a furious bull. Thorin managed to wedge the wreath carefully in his pack, tucked away in the dark, before collapsing onto the straw mattress. Blowing out the room’s single lit candle was an afterthought, and then sleep was upon him quicker than he imagined possible, given the storm of thoughts, worries, and doubts swirling in his skull.

Not terribly far to the north, just up the Bywater Road, Bag End was standing broad and proud on its hillside. Thorin’s very last conscious thought that night was how very glad he was that his room did not have a window.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Thorin dug his change of clothes out of his bag, and was dressed as the cockerels crowed their first chorus. His second best trousers, dark chestnut brown, a crisp white shirt, braces, and his very best waistcoat: grey wool, with a muted blue silk back. It was not as flashy as Frerin or his father favoured, but he had been told (by his mother, admittedly) that its dark, stormy hues were complimentary for his eyes. The buttons were real silver, polished to a mirror finish. His jacket was grey as well, though lighter than his waistcoat— the colour of pewter.

He knew he would look like a gawky raven amongst the colourful, finch-like Hobbiton folk in their greens, reds, and yellows, but these were some of the finest clothes he had. The fit was true and comfortable, without sagging or bunching, and there were no stains or tears; the same could not be said for much of his wardrobe.

When he appeared in the Common Room, the innkeep was busy sweeping near the hearth. Thorin slipped out before he was noticed and breakfast would be offered— his stomach was in no fit state for more than water at the moment, and even a few mouthfuls of that had left him swallowing naueously. The wreath was hidden away under his coat, hopefully not being crushed too badly, but he was hardly about to trapse through Hobbiton carrying it openly.

He had forced himself to linger in his room until a reasonable hour, so as not to disturb the Bagginses at the crack of dawn. As such, he made his way up Bywater Road and across the bridge, and was in Hobbiton proper just as the morning’s market was chugging to life.

Keeping his gaze pinned on his goal, the hill rising to the north, allowed Thorin to very nearly ignore the hobbits he passed on his journey. He felt their questioning stares following his progress, of course, but he was accustomed to that. He returned any greetings he was offered, but otherwise, he made no effort to do anything more than walk to Bag End.

His jaw was clenched hard enough to hear his teeth creaking, as he took his first steps along Bagshot Row in nearly nine years.

Things were largely as he remembered them: the colourful doors, herb gardens, and clotheslines. A cow watched him with wide, wet eyes from the other side of a fence, and somewhere farther down the hillside, a child was squealing with laughter. Nearly just the same, with the Party Tree casting its shade in the distance, and the green door of Bag End, beneath the canopy of another great oak.

There was no one in the front garden of Bag End— neither Bagginses or otherwise— but there were several windows opened wide to let the fresh summer air inside. Someone was more than likely awake; Shirefolk might not lock their windows overnight, but at the very least they usually closed them.

Thorin’s hand shook when he reached for the smial’s front gate, and he paused there to breathe, deep and steadying. This was the moment of truth, _his_ moment to find his courage. Clutched in his fist, still beneath his jacket, the wreath began to ooze wetly against his palm, and Thorin fought to relax his grip.

There were fewer than ten steps leading to the Bagginses door, but Thorin felt each one yawn beneath his feet like endless chasms. He knew what he wanted to say— he had practiced his apology over and over in his mind until it no longer sounded surly or stilted, and then practiced his request even more. The words were there, on his tongue, carved into his mind, and tied stiflingly tight around his heart.

Then the steps ended, the door was before him like a great field of green. Like the Old Forest, endless and ominous, with danger lurking within and beyond.

The door was before him, and there were no words on Thorin’s tongue anymore. Only his heart, thudding in his mouth.

This was the most foolish notion he’d ever had. This was a catastrophe.

He banged on the door, far too loud. Three deafening pounds of his fist.

And then, without further consideration, Thorin tossed the flattened wreath down on the threshold, turned, and ran back down the steps as though the Maggot family’s hounds were baying for blood at his heels.

He didn’t even bother with opening the gate, vaulting the low fence instead. Then he was off, abandoning Bagshot Row in favour of sprinting down the hillside, using every advantage his long legs allowed to eat up the distance and clear any fences in his way. Hobbiton was a blur around him, awash in green and brown, with the blue sky above and a few snatches of colour between, but all detail was lost in the speed of his gallop, and the hot grittiness in his eyes.

He had only ever felt so shamefully craven once before in his life: on the day he watched his family’s wagon roll away, leaving him behind on their way to Mister Baggins’ funeral.

He wondered, in quick, fluttering thoughts, how long this sour, cowardly tang in the back of his throat would take to fade this time.

Quite a while, he suspected.

 

* * *

 

Thorin ran the entire way to the Green Dragon, his lungs burning and every panting breath tasting metallic. He only lingered at the inn long enough to hastily gather the last of his things before setting off down the East Road.

He didn’t run again, but his pace was quick; if the weather stayed fine, he would reach Bucklebury in two days, or perhaps less. How long he lived after returning home this time depended largely on his mother’s mood.

One thing was absolutely certain: this would be the last time he _ever_ travelled this far west. He would rather move to Bree and wear shoes the rest of his days than ever clap eyes upon the pastoral hills of Hobbiton again.

Sticking to the road, Thorin passed the hulking height of the Three Farthing Stone, and had just skirted around the gentle bustle of Frogmorton, when the sound of his own name was shouted some distance behind him.

“No.” He hardly dared turn around, very nearly took a dive into the brush at the side of the road instead, and seriously considered taking off in a dead run through the nearby fields. “No, no, blast it, _no_.”

In the end, he merely stumbled to an awkward halt, shuffling over to the grassy side of the road, and watched Bilbo Baggins dashing towards him.

It took a few moments for the other hobbit to close the distance, even with his legs flying in swift strides. Finally, Bilbo skidded to a stop, kicking up dust and gasping sharp, wheezing breaths as he braced one hand on his knees.

Bilbo Baggins was so disheveled, he was nearly unrecognizable. His hair was a wild, windswept mess of tangled curls, blown out like a dandelion gone to seed, and his clothes were skewed and twisted at every seam. His face, or what Thorin could see of it with Bilbo bent double, was ruddy, cherry red blotched dark across his cheeks.

It was the wreath in his hands that set Thorin back on his heels. Tattered from its travels, and doubtlessly from Thorin’s poor handling and poorer skill at weaving it together, the blooms were cradled in the crook of Bilbo’s elbow, held securely against his chest.

Had Bilbo come all this way just to throw the miserable thing back in Thorin’s face?

“Dratted, bebothered,” Bilbo huffed, catching his breath. “ _Impossible_ Brandybuck. Bother it all.”

Bilbo straightened himself up with a pained groan, and Thorin tensed. After his behaviour this past while, he would accept any censure Bilbo wished to lay upon him, but he was not looking forward to whatever barbs would lash from Bilbo’s usually kind mouth.

“You can’t—” Inhaling again, Bilbo unfolded entirely, and for the first time, Thorin was able to see the whole front of him.

Bilbo looked as though he’d dressed in a rush— his waistcoat, green as a new leaf, was buttoned wrong. One side hung lower than the other, and there was an empty buttonhole at the top, without a free button nearby to fasten it.

The buttons… the buttons were pale wood, carved with the shapes of acorns. Lime wood, carved by Thorin’s own hands.

“Confound it, Thorin!” Dragging his eyes up from the buttons, _those_ buttons, Thorin was faced with a wreath he’d also made with his own hands. Less skillfully, perhaps, but with even more meaning. “You can’t just leave a wreath like this on a chap’s doorstep and rush off!”

The wreath shuddered in front of his nose, though not as violently as Thorin had expected. It didn’t swat him in the face, at least.

It had been the middle of the night when he’d crept out to the back garden of the Lonely Hill, with Frerin whispering instructions at his side, and the meanings of the riot of flowers spread before them. In the end, he’d chosen blue larkspur to match his own nosegay, huge lumps of peonies, sagging from the wreath like balls of pink yarn, and a handful of small, half-bloomed roses.

Peonies, for bashfulness and shame, both of which Thorin had steeped in down to his bones. And the roses, red and dark pink, for gratitude, admiration… for romance. And all of them, separate and together, for love. It was a pitifully woven wreath, but the message survived despite Thorin’s lack of skill.

“I want to apologise,” he blurted, his words coming too quickly and threatening to stammer over each other. “For… for a great many things. For my foolishness, my anger—”

“Thorin,” Bilbo began to say, but Thorin stepped back, shaking his head hard enough to send his hair whipping over his brow. Some things needed to be said.

“Please, Bilbo, I would take back my words at the party, if I could.” Clenching his hands at his sides, Thorin managed to call up some of the speech he had practiced, even if he could not gather it all together. “I was so certain you were mocking me. I had been _waiting_ for you to mock me, and then you laid a book of fairy stories before me, a faunt’s tales for the stork-faced, overgrown fauntling. For the pathetic, infatuated lad. I never thought— that book, your father’s stories...”

With a great swell of courage, Thorin shored up his nerve and stepped forward again, reaching down. By some miracle, Bilbo allowed Thorin to take his hands, though Thorin’s callus-rough paws nearly engulfed those smaller, softer fingers.

Bilbo’s hands were cool and dry, and his grip around Thorin’s fingers was surprisingly firm. Thorin realised too late that he should have wiped away some of the anxious dampness that had sprung up over his own palms, but it was too late now, and Bilbo… Bilbo didn’t seem disgusted.

“I was wrong,” Thorin said, and he refused to look away from Bilbo’s steady, unwavering gaze. “I’ve never been so wrong, in all my life. I am sorry for being blind to you. To this.”

He lifted their joined hands, ever so slightly, but it was Bilbo who lifted them farther. And it was Bilbo who laid a kiss against Thorin’s knuckles, so soft it did not even sting his healing scrapes.

“Look at you. Bloodied, and bloody stubborn,” Bilbo murmured, but his quiet laughter was perfectly kind, warm and low like the purr of a cat. Thorin felt the heat of it vibrate into his own belly, blooming wide and suffusing up into his chest. “I wish you had trusted me more, Thorin. I wish you hadn’t thought the worst of me.”

The truth of that stung, but Thorin had barely enough time to flinch before Bilbo was speaking again.

“And I wish I’d been wise enough to speak my mind,” he said. “With the same forthright honesty I so admire in you. Thorin, please, might we start again? Not from the very beginning, but perhaps, from here? From now?”

“Start again?” Clarity was vital, Thorin had discovered. He didn’t dare assume a thing— not anymore. “What do you mean?”

“I’d like very much to be your friend,” Bilbo said, wearing a smile that was built of dimples and pearly teeth, and the brightness Frerin had spoken about. Bright and joyful as the return of the sun after too many days of rain. “I’d like for you to know me, and learn to trust me, as I get to know you better. And, though only if you wished to, I’d like it if someday you would kiss me.”

Yes, clarity was _vital_.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, letting the name rise from the pit of his stomach, bringing heat and a dark rumble of sound along with it. That same rumble was lost in Bilbo’s mouth an instant later, where heat met sweetness and salt, chapped lips and puffing, surprised breath.

His thoughts were edged with poison, so he would act instead. He would feel, and trust those feelings, more than he trusted the hateful barbs that jabbed at his mind. He would try, at least, to trust Bilbo to keep both their courses steady in these unknown, treacherous waters.

It was strange, clumsy with nerves and inexperience, and Thorin broke away instantly from the poor excuse for a kiss when Bilbo squirmed to free his hands. But then there were fingers sliding up Thorin’s jaw, pulling him down; Bilbo’s breath was gusting over his face again, and Bilbo’s touch was guiding him to tilt his head, slotting their mouths together in a way that did not crush their noses. It was better now, wetter and warmer, and even better still when Bilbo sighed Thorin’s name between one kiss and the next.

The wreath had been balanced in the bend of Bilbo’s elbow, and now it lay on the dusty grass between their feet, largely forgotten. Later, Thorin would have the chance to make another.

And later, they would talk. Things would not always be as easy as a sweet, gentle kiss on the roadside, and the warm comfort of Bilbo's hand against his face, but Thorin was determined to try. To learn.

A hedge grown wild could choke whatever it was meant to protect. A hedge grown wild, sharp with brambles and left to spread unchecked, could tear mortar from between stones and erode foundations to crumbling.

A hedge grown wild was no hedge at all, but a thicket, a wood, as deep and deadly as the Old Forest. A hedge grown wild was no use to anyone, least of all to those trapped behind its thorns.

It would be no easy thing to beat back the untamed creep of brambles that squeezed vice-like around his heart. No easy thing to quiet his doubts— they might never fade entirely, but perhaps they could be tamed, as one might prune an overgrown thicket.

And if Bilbo had seen fit to give him a second chance, surely Thorin could find strength enough to offer himself the same. A second chance. A new start.

A new summer, to coax him from years of winter.

When Bilbo reached up and grasped Thorin’s wrist, bringing his arm down to curl around Bilbo’s waist rather than hang unsure in midair, Thorin held on as tightly as he dared. It wouldn’t do to get swept away, and Bilbo was steadier than he appeared.

Steady enough for this, with roots deep and solid beneath his feet.

Perhaps Thorin could grow a tree, a great oak to shield him, and leave his hedge behind.  A great oak to let him climb high, breath easy, and with space enough for company to sit and watch a sunset.

Perhaps he could grow an oak in his heart, sturdy and strong.  Less likely to strangle him, or drag him down into the dark.  Less likely to hide monsters from the light.

And perhaps he knew just where to find the right acorns.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks! Thank you so much for reading, for the comment and kudos, and for just being utterly lovely. This story was a labour of love, a learning experience, and more of a challenge than I expected; I've adored writing it, and I'm proud to share it with you. I hope you've enjoyed coming on this journey with me, and I truly appreciate your company along the way.
> 
> Check back later for links to the gorgeous art my dear artists have done for this, in the Hobbit Big Bang. I'll try to have most of the links complied by tomorrow evening!
> 
> (Oh, and by the way: Frerin neglects to mention that peonies also mean "happy marriage" <3)


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